Reluctantly Rogue Pt. 02

WARNING: This is a long story, but it is unfinished, and likely to remain in that state.

Also, it contains:

-Low levels of erotic content

-Slow Pacing

-Annoying characters

-Unsatisfying events

Consider yourself forewarned, dear reader!

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RELUCTANTLY ROGUE:

The Indecent Adventures of Atyr Bracken

PART TWO

The Tower on the Spire

***

CHAPTER ONE

Devil's Deal

Devil.

"Fiend" may have been a loosely defined term in Atyr's vocabulary, more of a description of someone's personality than a type of someone, but "devil" was a term with a very clear meaning. Devils featured in a great number of the tales from his childhood.

There were two kinds of stories about devils, and both involved deal-making. The first kind of story was the fun kind; a devil appears and attempts to bargain with the plucky, clever hero. The hero manages, through wit and subterfuge, to confound the devil's plans, getting everything they want, and usually leaving the evil creature imprisoned, humiliated, or otherwise defeated.

The second kind of story was of a darker sort. The would-be hero of the tale is too greedy, or too trusting of the devil, and doesn't notice all the details and implications of the deal to which they agree. The ends of those tales were generally gruesome, nasty, and otherwise unpleasant.

Atyr had certainly not even considered attempting to confound Helliot's plans with either wit or subterfuge, which meant he couldn't be in the plot of the first sort of story. Thus, unless tales about deals with devils were largely unrepresentative of reality, he had to assume he was in the second sort.

Judging from Pesky's reaction to the situation, that seemed to be a decent assumption.

Her arms were still draped about his neck, her wet, naked, star-made body leaning into his, her lips a hairsbreadth from his own. And she was not pleased.

"Right, Dummy. I'm taking charge for a bit." She let her head drop onto his sopping shoulder, slumping against him in the rain, very much not presenting herself as one taking charge. "I've been trying to give you a long lead, but it is not going well."

As she was speaking, she continued to dwindle, her feet leaving the ground as she hung from his shoulders, until she was her regular size again. "You have a room at the inn? With the sad old man?" She climbed slowly up onto his shoulder. "We're going there. Were talking where it's dry. Let's go."

"I do have a room already paid for, but I can't say whether we'll have it to ourselves. Maybe we should talk here?"

"We are not talking here."

"Or in the clearing where we were the other da--"

"We'll have the room to ourselves."

Atyr wasn't sure he liked the certainty with which she said that. "Uh... how do you know?"

"I will make sure."

"Pesky, is this-- how will you make sure?"

"I will. It's fine. Walk."

This commanding side of Pesky was not one he was prepared for. He began to walk. "Alright. But, you're not going to do anything too fae if we do have roommates, right?"

"Atyr, I watched Woodstead grow from wondrous woodlands that had never felt a human foot, to a narrow track, to a road, to a small cluster of huts, and in the last few moments, into the town it is today. I'm not a child, and I'm not a dummy." She smacked his dripping earlobe.

The moment of playfulness was reassuring in that it was familiar, but that puckish behavior was also what he was worried about.

"Look, I'm trusting you; I'm walking to Gant's. But please, will you promise me not to do anything that will call attention to us? Or harm anyone?"

"Atyr, I will promise you anything you want if it gets us inside a dry, private room where I can explain to you, in detail, what an enormous, colossal, gigantic, immense--"

"You're going to say 'dummy'."

"-- dummy you are!"

"Alright. I get it. Look, I already agree this was probably a mistake. I'm going. You're in charge." They were on the muddy main road now, turning toward Gant's. "I'm sorry."

Atyr preempted whatever Pesky's plan was to ensure a private room by offering Gant an additional two kips, claiming exhaustion and a great need for undisturbed sleep.

In the room, he wedged his dripping pack against the door as on the previous night. He pulled the contents out and spread them to dry. Everything was damp, including his spare set of clothes from the Teggums, so he just peeled off what he was wearing and hung it, dripping, on the footboard.

He sat down cross-legged on the bed, naked. Fae take modesty. He was over it. Pesky dropped out of the air onto the pillows and sat facing him.

Atyr spoke first. "Let's just agree that I messed up, and that I am in fact a dummy, and move past that to the part were you explain to me just how badly I messed up."

The sprite nodded. "Agreed, except that I get to call you a dummy one more time first." Atyr almost smiled, and nodded as well. She grinned. "Thank you. You're a dummy."

"Alright," he said. "I know all sorts of stories about devils and their deal-making. I know I'm probably in way over my head. But I need to know how far over."

Pesky smoothed her hands down her thighs, sitting up very straight. "Fine. And I need to know exactly what you agreed to."

Atyr spent several minutes detailing how he had met Helliot, the borrowed time, the questions, the story, the second agreement, and the terms.

"Some money and a dog?" Pesky was incredulous. You sold out the women who healed you for a dog?"

"I did not sell them out!" he hissed. "I promised to help Helliot by asking Bird to pass her stake in the agreement on to Kella."

The sprite stood up. She walked up to him and stood on his bare knee, staring up into his face. "And what happens if Bird says no? If Kella says no?"

Atyr wasn't sure. "Um, we didn't really spell that out, I just said I would help him."

She was shaking her tiny head slowly, eyes shut tight. "What. Exactly. Did you agree to?"

"I agreed that I would help him get Bird to pass the agreement to Kella, I've told you at least three times now."

"Exactly. The exact words Helliot used."

He thought back, carefully. The words, he realized, came easily to him, almost as though they were written somewhere in his mind, indelible. And from you, I will receive your aid in securing a resolution to my outstanding agreement with Abarabirdadellet.

Atyr repeated it word for word to her. He chewed his lip. "I'm certain that's right."

Tiny wings flicked in annoyance. "First. 'Will receive'. there's no out there. You will do it."

"... Right. I mean that's how deals work."

"Not always. He could have said, 'If possible I will receive,' or something. But that's the least of it. 'Aid in securing,' is the tricky part. It's murky. Ambiguous. Coming from Helliot, that's intentional. He doesn't slip up."

Atyr was beginning to see where this was going. Pesky continued. "How much aid? When? What counts? My guess is you're going to find out it's quite a lot of aid, and that you can't skip out until you have secured, and this is the big one, 'a resolution.'"

Atyr closed his eyes, feeling suddenly the weight of his mistake. "Right. A resolution. Not necessarily passing the agreement on to Kella. Just any resolution. And I have to help him or break the agreement."

"No Atyr. That's not how this works." Her white eyes pierced his own like shards of ice. "This isn't a deal between mortals. You have made an agreement about how this world will be. There's no breaking it. There's no future where you go home to your little clearing by the pool and build your cabin and get sucked off by the kelpie, and every now and then you get a strongly worded letter from one Belzekeziol Helliot, urging you to come back and fulfill your obligation. It's going to happen. You are going to help him 'secure a resolution'."

He was breathing hard now, comprehension punching him in the core like kickback from a bad-felled tree. Swallowing, he picked up where she left off. "Right. What if I flee? I run away, far away, too far to ever be reached?"

Pesky rolled her eyes at him. "It will happen, dummy. I don't know how, but it will. Imagine you run away. A few days from town, you meet an elderly couple. The man has a fever and a bad cough. You tell them to visit the Healing House, you sing Bird and Kella's praises. They take your advice. Bird catches the cough, and a week later, she's dead. You have secured a resolution."

"... I didn't know. I had no idea."

"Of course you didn't, dummy. If you had had an idea, we wouldn't be here. You would have ignored the fiend, and you certainly wouldn't have promised to either kill a nice old lady, or to convince your beautiful beloved to tie herself to the service of that princeling of the Inferno."

"Look, if you had taken the time to actually speak to me before now, to explain all of this fae-cursed, luckless shit to me like you're finally doing, we also wouldn't be here." He breathed in, trying to keep his voice low. "I would have had an idea, and we wouldn't be here. We wouldn't be here."

Cold, white eyes cut into him. She held him with her gaze for a long moment, but then she broke and looked down, and her wings and shoulders slumped.

A long moment passed. Another. The room itself seemed to settle and relax. Atyr looked at the tiny figure, seated on his bare thigh. He really knew so little about her. A week ago, he had been certain she was an easily distractable, sexually-irresponsible, clingy, annoying, well, dummy, if he had to pick a word. Over the past few days he'd had a peek at something else, and this evening his understanding of her had come flying apart into dust under the wings of an immense angel of starlight.

"Pesky."

She looked up at him.

"What if, and I'm not saying I'm planning this, I just want to know, but what if I was really gone. What if I was--"

"DON'T!" Her voice came loud, like the breaking of a bell, and it came with a weirding to it, but a weirding unlike any she had used before. It was a voice that let him feel true hurt, true fear, true loss, as though everything important to him in his short, little life had been destroyed right here, right now, on this dark, rainy night, in this small, dark room in Gant's Inn. "Don't," she repeated quietly. "I don't want to talk about it."

He breathed a moment, shallow, shuddering, tears hovering, not quite spilling over to run down his face. He closed his eyes. "Pesky, please. I need to know. What would happen?"

Silence. Long Silence. No sound aside from the fading rain, and the drops of water running off the roof outside the window.

He opened his eyes again. She was gone.

***

The sky outside the small window of Atyr's rented room was beginning to lighten, turning from the blue-black of true night, to the muted violet of the before dawn hours. Over the trees and hills, far away on the horizon, a faint, pink haze marked the point at which the sun would, in its ponderous journey, first grace the day with its radiance.

The young man slept on his side on top of the covers, naked. His brows were pulled down, eyes squeezed tightly. In his sleep, he worried at his lower lip with his teeth, an unconscious habit, with him since childhood.

On the pillow beside his head, a tiny, white figure stood motionless, glowing faintly with stardust. She stayed a long time there, looking at his face, watching him breath. From time to time her transparent wings would flutter.

Finally, as the first golden light glinted at the dark edge of the world, she moved. She stepped forward and reached towards the man's face, then hesitated and drew back. After a moment, she reached again, grabbed a single nose hair and yanked. Hard.

Atyr shot upright, hand flying to his nose. "Fae take you Pesky, you ill-fated little blight! Why?!" He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, then let himself drop back, face down in the pillows. His voice came muffled. "Why must you plague me?"

It was quiet. No response came from the little sprite. Atyr began to hope she had left again, and would leave him to sleep a little longer, but then her voice came soft beside him..

"I'm sorry Atyr. I am"

He lifted his head and opened a single eye to look at her. "You should be. That luckless hurts, you know."

"No. I mean I'm sorry. For the rest of it."

Atyr sighed, deep and slow, and rolled over on his back. He nodded and shrugged, looking away from her, out the window.

"If you..." Her voice was a whisper. "Mmm. If you. Died. If you died. I don't know what would happen. Maybe the agreement would die with you. No, that's not right, I know it would. But your... Death. Your death might also cause a resolution to occur, if it was possible. I don't know.

"Fae are the way we are. We don't grow, really. For lifetimes of mortals, we continue as we have been. We don't change. Not quickly."

He was looking at her closely now, unsure of where she was going.

"But I'll try," she said. She spread her wings wide, clenched her fists and stamped a tiny foot. "I'll try!"

Atyr couldn't help smiling. Such a theatrical display of determination could be only humorous in someone barely taller than his hand. Half a moment later, he recalled her form as an avenging angel the night before, and the smile faded slightly.

Pesky tilted her head. "I want to help you. I do. I promise to try to explain things to you. I have learned something important." Her habitual grin returned. "I have learned that you are definitely, certainly, very much, a dummy."

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CHAPTER TWO

Broken Glass and Confusion

Atyr stood up suddenly from the bed. He slipped into the clothes from the Teggums, as his clothing from last night was still damp. He grabbed his pack and turned. "Come on. I need you with me today. All day."

The sprite, still standing on the bed, cocked her head at him. "Where are we going?"

"I came to a decision last night. There are three ways to resolve Helliot's situation. If it's going to happen one way or another, then I have to make it happen the way I want it to. First, I'm not letting anything happen to Bird. That's obvious. And the second option, well, I'm not letting Kella bind herself to a devil, whatever that might entail. So that leaves the impossible option, the one that can't be done." He pointed at Pesky. "You and me, are going to find a way to allow Bird to see Helliot, and refuse his offers. That'll send him home to the Inferno, as I understand it."

"Listen, dummy--"

"Still with the 'dummy'?"

"Always with the 'dummy'." She smirked. "Answer me this. Bird has to be able to talk to Helliot to make this work. She can't hear him. She can't see him. She can't interact with him at all unless she can re-invite him. She can't re-invite him unless she can summon him from the Inferno, and he can't get to the Inferno unless she can complete the agreement, for which she needs to be able to see and hear him. Correct?"

Atyr grinned fiercely at her. "Wrong. She can't hear him or see him. But they can interact."

"Alright... enlighten me?"

"They can write. We can put them together in a room, and they can have a written conversation. Bird writes to him what she initially summoned him for, he makes an offer, she rejects it, he goes home. Done."

Pesky was shaking her head. "It just doesn't work like that."

"Why not?"

"He won't do it that way."

"He can't, or he won't?"

"He won't but... but it's the same thing, for us."

"Oh, it's 'us' now? I thought he wasn't fae, that he was a fiend."

"We're both not mortal. We're similar in certain ways. We don't change, and we are as we are. Helliot won't do it."

"He will. I'm going to make him do it."

"Atyr, he won't."

"Well... no harm in trying?"

The sprite stared at him. He got the sense she was experiencing a bit of the annoyance he usually felt towards her. "Fine." She said. "But I'm letting you know now that it's pointless. You think he's really never considered using pen and ink over the three score summers he's been trapped here?"

"I have no idea what he's considered. But I wasn't here before, and fae take me if I don't try all my options."

"Fine. Fine. Let's go see Helliot. But let my opposition be noted."

They found Helliot sitting on a bench against the back wall of the Birdhouse, reclining with his head resting on crossed arms behind his head. He greeted Pesky somewhat apprehensively, but then turned his focus to Atyr, listening attentively and graciously to the young man's idea.

"My dear Mr. Bracken. Hardly has a single night passed and yet, with the coming of the dawn I find you already hard at work on your obligations. I have said this to you before, but truly, I commend you on your promptness. It fills me with great confidence that, as you develop your subsequent plans of action, they will lead us to a swift and satisfying resolution to our dilemma."

Atyr sucked his lip and stared at the dark-clad man, feeling somewhat emboldened after last night by the presence of Pesky, even in her diminutive form. "Subsequent plans? So you won't try this one?"

"I will not, Mr. Bracken. My apologies. If it were within my power to do it, be assured that I would jump to it with eagerness and with verve. In fact, were it so, it is possible I might have taken the opportunity at some point over the past three score and seven years."

"So, a written contract doesn't work? It needs to be spoken aloud?"

"Mr. Bracken, a written contract would be quite satisfactory. At many points in my life I should have preferred it. It is not the writing per se that presents the obstacle. The obstacle lies with the inability for Abarabirdadellet and myself to communicate directly with one another before creating such a contract."

"But you could write messages back and forth, and communicate that way."

"I could not." Helliot sat up now, and spread his hands apologetically. "I know this must seem an odd and ornery bit of pedantry on my part, for which you have my profuse and sincere contrition."

"You could not? Or you won't"

Helliot was quiet, then he stood, and walked over to the window that looked into the Ending Room, as yet with a pane missing. He pointed a velvet finger at the ground, still damp with morning dew.

"Mr. Bracken. If I may impose upon you. Would you be so kind as to secure this sliver of glass for me? The long, thin one there."

Atyr frowned, but obliged. It was hard not to trust the man, not to assume good will from him.

"Excellent Mr. Bracken. If you will oblige me further: yet another practical demonstration, as with our metaphorical examples of the apple and of the lens." He clasped his hands and smiled warmly. "Mr. Bracken, if you would be so good as to insert that sliver of glass into your left eye. At your leisure."

Atyr took a step back now, holding the glass at arms length. He looked nervously around, but Pesky seemed unconcerned. She was hovering several strides away, apparently unsurprised by Helliot's sadistic request.

"I note, Mr. Bracken, that your eye remains free of any glass. Are you physically unable? Perhaps I may assist you?" He took a small step forward, gracefully extending a hand to accept the broken shard.

Atyr dropped it on the ground, and backed away towards Pesky. "Pesky told me what you are. I'm not afraid of you, and I won't kill Bird for you, or let you steal Kella's soul." He spat. "Devil!"

Helliot continued smiling, as he bent and carefully retrieved the small, clear sliver. "Mr. Bracken, I have made no attempt to disguise my origins. It is in the surname, after all." He chuckled slightly. "Rest assured, I have no desire to harm you. More than that, it would actively pain me should harm befall you. In our brief dealings, Mr. Bracken, I have developed a fair level of respect for your integrity, your simplicity, and perhaps most of all, your promptness. I do so value promptness, Mr. Bracken.

"But, I urge you again, Mr. Bracken," he held out the long, thin glass and sunlight glinted off the wicked tip. "I should like you to drive this deep into your left eye. Might I remind you that, with your recent acquisition of that shade of immortalness which we discussed the other night, your eye will be quite healed after a night's sleep. So no harm, Mr. Bracken, no harm. Go ahead. Surely, as I have already inquired, you are not physically unable?"

Atyr began to understand. He nodded once, tensely, slowly, not looking away from Helliot's eyes.

"Ah, yes, as usual your intuition is swift. You begin to see my point." A velvet finger flicked gently at the point of the shard. "Yet another tasteless bit of wordplay, Mr. Bracken. It is a vice of mine which I cannot resist, but for which I beg your patience.

"Yes, Mr Bracken, it is possible for one in my position to utilize your clever loophole to resolve the predicament. Were I made differently, I might be able. Were the circumstances more immediate, the consequences of delay more dire, perhaps I, even as I am, might force, as it were, this metaphorical shard deep into my eye.

"But no, Mr. Bracken, I cannot do it. I will not do it." He closed his fist around the gleaming edges of the broken sliver of glass, and crushed it slowly to powder.

"Oh, and Mr. Bracken, if I may plead with you for a reevaluation of my character: I truly wish no harm to you, to Abarabirdadellet, or to your dear Ms. Bracken-to-be."

Atyr heard a tiny snicker from overhead, and glowered at fae and fiend alike.

"Should I wish you harm, Mr. Bracken," Helliot brushed the powdered glass from his gloves, staring straight at the young man. His eyes seemed almost to flicker, as if lit from within by a raging wall of flame. "Should I wish you harm, it would be entirely unnecessary to utilize such mundane, unrefined, unsophisticated implements."

Pesky cupped her hands around her mouth, and whispered into Atyr's ear, loudly and theatrically. "Second Scion of the First House of the Inferno."

There was silence between the three of them, mortal, fae, and fiend. Atyr looked calmly at his palms, then, turning decisively, made for the front of the Birdhouse.

"Hey dummy, where are you going?"

He didn't stop. She buzzed along beside him. "Can we talk a moment? You and me?"

Now he slowed to look at her. "Soon. After I tell Bird."

"Mr. Bracken, I should also very much like to converse with you before further engagement is taken on this course of action."

Atyr looked behind him. Helliot had rounded the corner of the building as well.

Pesky glared at the devil, but then turned back to Atyr, hovering close in front of his face. "I don't think we need his advice, but we do need to talk. This is not a good day for decisiveness."

The young man looked from one to the other. He shook his head, and continued around the building. The two immortals trailed after, the sprite zipping unpredictably around him, the velvet-clad gentleman strolling behind at a distance.

Rounding the corner, he found the door open, and walked in. The first room was empty.

"Bird?" he called. "Hullo?" A faint moan came from further into the house.

"Really, Mr. Bracken, I earnestly believe you'll find my advice in this matter to be of no small assistance." Pesky snorted, but Helliot ignored her. "I have, as you may recall, had three score and seven years to consider it."

"He's had three score and seven years to plot, he means. Devilishly." Pesky interposed herself in front of the tall, refined figure of the devil.

"Will you two be quiet?" he hissed. "I have come to the conclusion I don't trust either one of--"

The door to the Leaving Room opened halfway, and Kella leaned around it, looking harried. Atyr noted a significant amount of fresh blood on her smock. "Atyr, Hi! Really sorry, but Bird needs me just a moment longer." She forced a thin smile. "Be right back?"

The door closed, and almost immediately reopened. Kella's face peered back through the crack. "Hey, um, I missed you!" The door shut.

Pesky tittered at him. "She miiiiissed you." She made a kissy face, and spun around once.

"This past evening, Mr. Bracken, I had intended to discuss several important points, relevant to your discussions with the two delightful women here, which might better ensure that we proceed without difficulty towards our mutual satisfaction." He coughed meaningfully into a red glove. "Our untimely interruption, however--"

"Here's another untimely interruption, Belzy. Shut up, will you?"

Helliot stiffened. "I would dearly appreciate your future restraint, with regards to your utilization of that particular--"

"Got it, Belzy." Helliot opened his mouth again but Pesky rolled over him. "Atyr. We need to go. We need to talk. We can come back later, but first we need to talk."

"Mr. Bracken, as insufferable as this small creature may be, she is, in this single advisement, exactly correct." Pesky preened.

Helliot closed his eyes, lips thinning. "It would be most discouraging were our initial discussion with Abarabirdadellet to set forth accompanied by a poor tone; it is a potential roadblock which we must be cautious to-- gah!" Pesky had crashed bodily into his mouth mid-sentence.

"Oops, sorry Belzy!"

"You aggravate me dreadfully. A name is a matter of great..."

The two immortals began to bicker back and forth, and Atyr let their voices fade from his attention, walking over to the single window and staring down at the gentle hills of Woodstead. Every now and then some snarky comment or other would catch his ear. It seemed there might be a bit of history between the two of them.

After a short while, the door opened once again, and Kella entered the room. Pesky and Helliot continued to argue closely about some past event. Atyr glanced worriedly at them, then at Kella. She followed his gaze, and looked back at him blankly. "Atyr, hi. Sorry about that." A sharp cry came from the door behind her and she shrugged, wincing. "Um, is everything alright?"

Atyr nodded quickly and tried to smile, stealing one more glance at the bitter conversation taking place just a few paces away. Helliot was speaking in hushed tones now, a curl to his upper lip.

"... and the boy is of immense usefulness to me. I desire, nay, require his assistance, and if I cannot rely on you to keep him alive longer than your usual fodder, I--"

Helliot stopped dead, belatedly registering Kella's return. Pesky whirled on the well-dressed fiend.

"Atyr?" Kella's voice was nervous. "What is it?"

"Kella! Sorry. Just a lot on my mind, um..."

Atyr tried to ignore the arguing pair, but Pesky was now darting repeatedly at Helliot's face. The tall gentleman did his stoic best to ignore her assaults, disapproval writ deeply on his refined features.

"Right. Uhhh, I need to talk to you. You and Bird, if I can. But, I think maybe I should to talk to just you first?" The bickering stopped immediately.

The young healer smiled hesitantly. "Um, yes, of course. Mother will be busy a little while yet; she's setting a bad break." She gestured at the blood on her front. "What did you want to talk about?"

How to start. Atyr hadn't actually planned out what he would say. Bird almost made a deal with a devil and he's been here for generations and we need to send him home and also I made a deal with him too. Oh, and he wants your soul or something, and I might have promised it to him. Maybe not.

A deep voice broke in. "Mr. Bracken, now is not the time--"

A high voice cut him off. "You dummy, I swear if you--"

Atyr spoke over them both. "Um, has Bird ever told you any stories about her youth? Stories about odd things happening."

"Atyr!" Pesky was in his face, swatting at his nose. He flinched away.

"Atyr?" Kella asked. "Are you sure you're really alright?"

"Mr. Bracken, really, I cannot more adamantly stress--"

"Yes," Atyr said firmly, "I am, there's just... there's just a lot going on right now." He glared sidelong at Helliot and Pesky, who both began speaking at once, a tumble of words.

Kella frowned. "Right... if you say so. Um, yes, Bird tells many stories. What sort of stories?"

"You absolute dummy, you need to stop, you don't know what the outcome of this will be!"

"Please, Mr. Bracken, this is the only time I will ever urge you to listen to this uncultured fae creature, but--"

Atyr bit his lip. This was unworkable without privacy. "Look. I think actually I made a mistake coming here right now." He glanced at the sprite and the devil, now on either side of Kella, staring at him. He spoke slowly. "I... I need to get my thoughts in order. Um..."

"Mr. Bracken. I believe it would be in all of our best interests, if you would request that Ms. Thorn converse with you this evening, and further--"

"Atyr, really, you're acting very odd." Kella's dark eyes were searching his expression tensely. "Is there trouble? I really am getting a bit worried."

"... that she refrain from making any mention of this moment to Abarabirdadellet until after that conversation takes place," Helliot finished.

Pesky nodded. "He's right." She stuck out her tongue at the fiend. "Listen to Belzy, yes?"

Atyr nodded slowly.

"So there is trouble? What is it? Should I get Bird now or--"

"No, no, sorry!" He cut in. "I was nodding about something else... I was nodding to myself."

Kella shook her head. "Atyr, I'm going to get Bird, alright?"

"Don't let her, dummy!"

"Mr. Bracken, please dissuade her of this."

"Kella, wait. Don't. Look. I know I must seem luckless crazy right now." He bit his lip hard. "There's... yes, there is trouble. Maybe."

"Lots," said Pesky. "Not maybe."

Helliot glanced disdainfully at her. "The only trouble will be if we don't end this conversation swiftly before Abarabirdadellet enters."

"There is trouble," Atyr confirmed again, with a meaningful glance at Helliot. "But it's a longstanding sort of trouble. Scores of summers. There's no rush."

Kella nodded, not looking comforted. "I still think Bird should be a part of this, if it's about her." She reached for the door behind her.

"Stop her, dummy!"

"Kella, wait!"

She looked at him, then turned and began to pull the door open. Helliot slammed it shut and held it. Kella jerked her hand back and gasped. She threw a look at Atyr over her shoulder and grabbed the handle again, yanking hard. The door didn't budge. She turned slowly back to him, eyes wide with fear.

"Atyr." Her voice was small. "What is going on?" She backed away from the door. He reached for her hands.

"Kella, I'm so sorry, I know--"

She pulled back from him, stepping away into the center of the room. "I really need to know what is going on, and I need to know right now." Her hand slipped into the pocket of her smock.

"Kella. Just listen. Bird... she got into something weird when she was young, and it's still here. He's still here." Kella's mouth opened slightly, recognition on her face. He smiled grimly. "You know about that?"

She nodded.

"Right, so she got into something, and we need to figure out how to get rid of it. I just found out about all this and I'm not sure--"

"Mr. Bracken, might I suggest that it would be inestimably preferable were you to refrain from referring to me as something 'weird' to be 'gotten rid of.' I am unconvinced it sets a tone which will be conducive to--"

"Shut up Belzy, and let him talk."

"--and I'm not sure how to do it. How to get rid of it."

Kella was relaxing slightly, but she kept glancing nervously at the door. "Atyr, is there something fae with us now? In here?"

"Look, Kella, it's not exactly--"

"Atyr, just tell her not to talk to the old Bird already and let's go."

"What, Atyr? It's not what?" Her eyes were searching his face.

"Kella. I want to explain everything to you. Give me until tonight to sort things out. There's... yes, something fae is in the room. And also something-- look, it's really complicated." He let out a long breath. "Will you, can you just promise me you won't mention any of this to Bird until later? I can come back this evening and tell you everything I know. It's important you don't tell Bird just yet." He looked questioningly at Pesky and Helliot. They both nodded.

Kella's eyes were still unsettled. "Are we safe here? Are the patients safe?"

"Oh yes. Yes, that I'm sure of."

"I'm not." Pesky glared at Helliot.

"I resent your insinuation. If we were not in your realm, it would sorely try my restraint to--"

"You're safe," Atyr continued. "The dev- the thing Bird got mixed up with has been hanging out here ever since. I don't think it's dangerous." He glanced sidelong at Helliot, who smiled disarmingly.

Pesky snickered. "You seemed to think he was pretty dangerous with that broken glass just a bit ago."

Kella looked at him closely. "Alright. I really... I guess I don't really know what to do except hope I can trust you." She shook her head and looked at the door again. "You'll explain everything tonight?"

"I'll explain everything tonight." He tried to plaster an encouraging smile on his face.

"Atyr, I really don't like this."

"I know. I'm sorry. Neither do I." He reached for her hands again, and this time she let him, finally taking her own hand out of her pocket. "Kella, I know this is weird, but I promise it'll make much more sense tonight. I want to explain now but..." He looked sullenly from fae to fiend. "But I think it's better if we wait."

"Look, Belzy, aren't they adorable?"

Helliot turned politely away.

Atyr looked into Kella's eyes. "Promise me you won't tell Bird?"

She stared back, quiet for a long moment. Different emotions flickered, half-formed, across her face. "Alright. But you have to promise me that you'll explain it all tonight. Yes?"

"I will. I should go. Meet you here just before the gloom sets?"

"Oh delightful!" Bird shuffled in through the door, wiping bloody hands on her smock. "A second date. Well." She looked at the young pair, holding hands. They quickly separated.

Pesky giggled and flew to Atyr's shoulder. "Oops, caught in the middle of your seductive advances."

Hellio coughed in distaste.

Bird's eyes grew uncertain, and she glanced around the room. Her gaze settled on Atyr.

"Uh, yes," he stuttered, "We were, uhhh just going to go for a short walk when Kella is done this evening." Kella nodded, staring at her toes.

Pesky leaned in to his ear. "A short walk and a good, long--"

"We should leave." Helliot cut her off. "Now."

Bird blinked, and her eyes drifted away from Atyr's face, searching the empty air behind him.

Pesky drew in a little breath, and fled for the door. Helliot followed her out.

Bird's gaze came back to Atyr, and then shifted to Kella. "Well. Well, I suppose you could leave a bit early this evening." Her lips twisted knowingly, and her bright eyes locked suddenly onto Atyr's. "You've a very interesting young man here. I hope we both manage to see more of him."

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CHAPTER THREE

To Define a Fetish

In the trees outside the Birdhouse, Atyr found the pair of chaos-causing immortals.

"You two." He stalked up them. "Are absolutely the most aggravating people I have ever met."

Helliot blinked calmly at him. "I do apologize for the haphazard manner in which this morning has played out. Had we been permitted to speak at length last night, I am certain much of this could have been avoided."

"Come on, dummy, let's let Belzy sulk while we go plot without him."

"Pesky, wait. Let me talk to him for just a moment. Mr. Helliot. Why shouldn't I explain everything to Bird and Kella right now?"

"Thank you, Mr. Bracken. I do appreciate the opportunity to make my explanations." He smiled, and folded his velvet fingers together. "I worry that, unless matters are introduced with care, Abarabirdadellet may refuse to engage further with me. I worry also, that certain descriptions of the circumstances of the situation might disincline Ms. Thorn to participate."

Pesky rolled her eyes. "I'll be waiting over here, once you've finished having your mind muddled all over again by, can I remind you, an actual prince of the Inferno?"

She buzzed off in annoyance. Atyr looked at Helliot. "That's the thing though, isn't it? You're worried that Bird won't want to deal any further with you if she finds out you were a devil all along. You think Kella won't want to be bound to a devil. Just like, if you'd introduced yourself to me as a Scion of the Inferno, whatever that is, you know I wouldn't have been willing to talk to you at all."

Helliot smiled. "Mr. Bracken, you are only partially correct. I am willing to accept you at your word that you would have been unwilling to treat with me, had I explained my background in full. However, I am not certain that Ms. Thorn would share your reticence. And Abarabirdadellet," he caught Atyr's eye, "was entirely aware of who it was she was summoning, when she extended her invitation to me, these many summers past."

Atyr hadn't been expecting that. Bird knew? All these years, she'd known that her "fae man" was actually a fiend? She had willingly summoned a prince of devils to her? He had no response.

"No, Mr. Bracken, it is not that I fear what should happen were you to utter the word 'Devil.' I realize, belatedly, and this is a failing entirely of my own creation, I realize that you may be unversed in the workings of agreements with immortals. It is not like a mundane contract, Mr. Bracken, it is--"

"No, I understand how it works now. Pesky explained it last night."

"Ah, excellent, excellent. Then you understand that a resolution will occur?"

Atyr nodded.

"And you recall the three methods which would release me?"

Another nod, curt.

"Let me reiterate then, Mr. Bracken. The resolution I desire, is for Abarabirdadellet to pass her stake on to another, and if I may drop my previous coyness, to your Ms. Thorn in particular. The second resolution is moot; it remains impossible. The final resolution would be the passing of our dear friend. Whether or not you now believe me, I maintain that it is most dearly that I wish to avoid hastening that event."

Helliot looked deep into Atyr's face, questioning. Atyr only shrugged, and looked away.

"Well, Mr. Bracken, whether or not you can find it within yourself to trust in my words, it is nevertheless the truth that I should like to avoid that morbid outcome. And so it is, that I have formed a plan which I believe will best enable us to ensure that it is only my preferred scenario which--"

"If you were only willing to accept a specific resolution, you would have specified it in our agreement." Atyr's voice was quiet.

Red velvet hands spread disarmingly. "My dear Mr. Bracken, please believe--"

"I don't."

"I confess it may have been a careless mista--"

"I don't believe you." It was nearly a lie, on Atyr's part. Even now, it was impossible not to relax into a calm, trusting state when talking to this man.

Helliot's tone grew crisper. "Whether or not you believe me is, at this juncture, irrelevant. Our goals are currently in complete alignment, and the only pragmatic--"

"Come on, Pesky, let's go."

"It is only to both of our disadvantage, should we fail to work in concert at this point. When ends are in harmony, means may be excused, Mr. Bracken, and I think you will soon come to see..."

Helliot's voice faded behind them as they headed down the hill.

Leaving the Birdhouse behind, Atyr headed straight for Gant's lodging house. It seemed he wouldn't be leaving town this morning after all. Pesky, astonishingly, managed to stay silent.

The main room was empty when he entered, and Gant was trudging slowly about the floor with a broom.

"Ah, young Bracken, back already? I owe you breakfast still, if you're in the mind for it."

Food did sound appealing right now. "I wouldn't turn it down, thanks."

The small innkeep nodded dourly and turned to go, but Atyr stopped him.

"It seems I'll be in town a while yet. I thought I'd be gone already but... but something's come up."

Gant peered at him, eyes narrow. "Not trouble, I hope?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I just uh, I have something I need to do here. It's to do with the Healing House."

"Sick still?"

"Not sick, just something I feel I ought to do for Bird. Anyway, could I rent a room for a few days, say, the next four nights?"

"Aye, of course. It's three kips a night as you know by now. Would you like that breakfast?"

"I would, I would. But, uh... I was wondering, would it be possible to rent a room just for myself once more? I could..." He stopped, trying to think of a reason he might need the privacy that didn't involve talking to invisible faeries. "I'm used to sleeping alone, I suppose."

The old man's thin face looked sour. "I get three in a bed, four some nights. You want to pay for three?"

Nine kips a night was a lot of coin. Four nights would cost him a banner and twelve. "If I pay in advance, it's guaranteed rent." He swallowed. "Would you take a banner for four nights, the room to myself?"

The innkeep paused, then walked to the counter. He counted out four piles of nine kips, stared at them, then pushed the coins all together, and counted out twenty four. He squinted at Atyr. "That there is your banner. That leaves me short..." He counted the smaller pile. "It leaves me short twelve kips."

"Twelve kips if you get three to a bed every night."

"... aye. I suppose. But what do you need the privacy for so bad? And where are you getting all this coin, I might ask?" The little man straightened up to his full height and looked up at Atyr. "I'll not have any untoward happenings in my rooms, whether you pay or no."

"Of course not! I did come into some coin, but I don't expect I'll be finding much more. It's no use to me in the Brookwood, but I do need a place to stay. And, all I can say is I've had a rough couple weeks. The privacy would mean a lot to me, right now."

Eventually, the old man relented, suspicion still on his face, and Atyr handed over a silver banner. A few more remonstrances about keeping out of dodgy business followed, but eventually he was permitted to head upstairs to his private room. Breakfast had been forgotten.

"Alright," he said slowly to Pesky. "I need to do a couple things about town, but first, you and I are going to talk. We need a plan."

"Oh, a plan, excellent." She was flopped, spread eagle on the pillow. "I didn't know you did those."

"Hah." He paced. "I know this has been stated to fate and back, but one more time, alright?" He held up a finger. "One. Bird dies. That's bad." He glared at her. "Right?"

She made a noncommittal squeak, but relented under his continuing stare. "'Kay."

"Two. Kella takes over. She makes a deal with a devil. Not as bad, but probably still pretty bad." Pesky was kicking her legs in the air now. "Three. Impossible. Bird has to be able to talk to Helliot directly."

"Mmhmmmm, sounds right to me."

"I want to do number three."

Pesky sat up and placed her chin in her palms. "That's the impossible one?"

"Right. It's not impossible though."

"Actually, it is, dummy, alright? She'd have to re-summon Helliot from the Inferno. He's not there. Can't do it."

"Pesky."

"Dummy."

"Pesky, listen. I never summoned any infernal devils, alright? I see him just fine."

"That's because you're fae-touched now."

"Fae-touched, is that what this is called?" He touched the symbol on his forearm.

"It's what you're called. I touched you."

"Perfect, so you can 'touch' Bird."

She flopped back on the pillow, arms behind her head. "It's more or less a one-at-a-time sort of deal." She looked thoughtful. "And elderly ladies are not my type."

"Well, can't we get another fae to do it then? Would Elatla?"

Pesky twisted up her face. "Ummm, I don't think Bird would be willing to do whatever Elatla would want in return for that. But anyway, I'm not certain Elatla could. Not every fae wanders around creating fae-touched adventurers, you know." She stood up and crossed her arms importantly. "You don't think little rock gremlins are out there handing out windows into the immortal realm, do you?" She snorted, tossing her head.

"Fair, but could some other fae?"

Pesky relaxed a bit. "Atyr, not many of us can offer that choice to mortals, and when we do, it's for really important reasons. It's a serious thing."

Atyr's brows shot up high on his forehead. "Really important reasons? So far, you've just tried to get me laid, so far as I can tell."

The little sprite plopped back down on the pillow, turning away from him. "I don't expect a foolish mortal of your few years to understand..."

"Right. Anyway. There really isn't anyone you know, any fae, who might grant this "fae-touch" to Bird?"

She shrugged. "Atyr, I'm sorry. It may be there is, but I don't know who. Even if we found someone who would, they might be a month's journey away, they might require immense sacrifice from Bird, it's... Alright, I guess you're right that it's not impossible, but it might as well be."

Atyr sat down beside her on the bed. "Luckless fate." He flopped down onto his back. "Utterly luckless. Thought I was on to something."

"I don't think Helliot would have mentioned that outcome if he thought it was likely to happen. He wants Kella."

"Right." Atyr shook his head, a sneer on his lips. "He wants Kella, but he'll take Bird's death or her rejection as second place, if it comes to it. What a fae-cursed little--"

"'Fate-cursed', Dummy."

"Huh?"

"Fiends are fate-cursed, not fae-cursed." She grinned. "We just curse at them."

"Oh. Didn't realize it was that literal."

"Mmhm."

Silence fell over the little room for a while. The young man lay on the bed, staring deep into the rough wood of the ceiling. The sprite on the pillow beside him had her legs straight up in the air again; she was tapping her toes with a pointed finger, back and forth in sequence, back and forth. He looked over at her. It seemed to be an engaging game.

"Morgwyn," he said suddenly.

"Hmm?" She stopped, finger touched to her little toe.

"Morgwyn, wasn't it?

"... Maybe? Wasn't what?"

"The witch. Right here by Woodstead in the old tower."

Pesky's little bell of a voice was patronizing. "'Morgwyn?' what an ugly name. Suits her. But no, it's Wetlyn. What about her?" She rolled up onto an elbow to stare into his eyes. "She's way beyond you, please believe me. Unless you fancy becoming a stack of Ranger steaks."

"She eats people?"

"No. Maybe." Pesky thought for a moment. "Probably. Seems like something she'd do."

He shook his head. He didn't want to worry about that right now. "So Wetlyn. She's a witch. She does magic."

Pesky just stared at him, blankly.

"Right? She does magic?"

"... Yes... she 'does magic'. And we care about her suddenly because why?"

"Could she cast a spell that makes Bird able to talk to Helliot?"

Pesky shook her head. "Witches don't really do 'spells'. More like concoctions, making charms, fetishes, stuff like that."

"Excuse me, fetishes?"

"Pervert. A fetish is a small pendant or something that has some sort of effect to it."

"Oh." Always something to learn. "So anyway, could she make something that would let Bird and Helliot talk?"

Pesky pulled in her arms and rolled across the bed to him like a log, stopping just short of his face. She smirked. "You want Wetlyn to give Bird a fetish?"

Atyr sat up and moved away from her, rolling his eyes. "Could she do it?"

"I suppose, maybe? I really don't know."

"If I wanted to ask her, could I just go knock on the tower door? Or will she eat me?"

Pesky twisted her lips up like a bite of a beloved sweet apple had gone to rot in her mouth.

"Is that stupid? Can we go talk to the witch?"

Silence. Pesky glowered.

"Pesky, can we?"

She sighed. "Fine. Fine."

"Pesky, answer me truthfully, is this a good idea, or am I going to get killed here?"

The little sprite stood up slowly, making a show of settling her wings, and straightening her hair. "Truthfully? No, it's a terrible idea. But no, she won't kill you." She looked away a the wall.

"I'm getting conflicting messages..."

"It's fine. It's fine. She's just a luckless old bitch. Hag."

Atyr's brows rose again. He'd never heard that level of distaste in the little fae creature's voice. All further questions, he decided, he would keep to himself.

Back out on the still-muddy road through Woodstead, Pesky's mood improved. She was back in her favorite seat, the top of Atyr's head, happily drumming her heels against his eyebrows.

"You know, the world is always so nice after a good rain." She hummed a flute-like melody to herself. "I just love it when everything's all wet." She weirded the word 'wet,' causing Atyr's thoughts to go reeling sideways into distracting places.

"Shut up. I have something to grab here." They were right out front of Rehamel's Smithy.

"Ooooh, are you going to grab his wood? He seemed to like what you did with it before." Her voice layered 'wood' with a deep eroticism, and Atyr was mortified to feel himself stiffening noticeably where he stood on the street. He ducked quickly inside the shop before any passerby might see.

Fortunately, Rehamel wasn't in the front, and the bulge in Atyr's pants subsided undetected.

"Fates curse you, Pesky. I told you I don't go for men."

Pesky giggled. "I'm certain."

"I don't! So you can stop making the dumb jokes about--"

"Talking to yourself Atyr?" Rehamel was coming through the door. He grinned. "Guess that wolf really did get you worked up, huh?"

From on top of Atyr's head came a titter. "Worked up."

He ignored her. "Hah, I guess so. The past couple weeks have been... there's been a lot, Rehamel."

"You alright?"

"Oh yah, just... you know, talking to myself, I guess." Both men laughed.

The flame-headed smith reached under the counter and pulled out the small bundle, handing it to Atyr. "They're nicer than I thought they'd be. Should do you well."

Atyr unwrapped the two daggers, taking them out of their dingy sheathes to admire the blades. "Fates, Rehamel. These were nice weapons once."

"They were! Still are, though the hilts and sheathes aren't too pretty. I see now why the old fellow thought I could use them."

Pesky looked down at the blades. "I really hope you don't think these are going to be in any way useful to you when we visit Wetlyn."

Atyr ignored her. "These are worth more than the five kips we agreed on."

The smith smiled at him and tilted his head in acknowledgment. "Maybe, yeah. But we agreed on five, and five it is."

"You could get a full banner I bet, if you put these up for sale."

"Maybe. Maybe I could, eventually." Rehamel shrugged. "But I never would have cleaned them if you hadn't been looking, so I never would have known, would I? Five is the price."

Atyr chewed his lip. "If you're determined. But I owe you for sure, alright?"

The smith laughed at him warmly. "Alright, if it makes you feel better. Next time I need help with something to do with wood I'll be demanding your skills. Sound fair?"

Pesky snickered, and Atyr swatted her off his head, trying to make it look like he was just running a hand through his hair. His cheeks reddened. "It's a deal." Choked laughter came from the floor behind him.

Atyr moved on, ignoring the sprite. "Hey, so that saw, how much was it? The smaller one?"

"Oh, you could have it for two and six."

Atyr emptied his coin purse. Two banners and ten kips lay in his hand. He put the coins away again. "I think I better hold off for now. Still dreaming about it though!"

Rehamel caught Atyr's eye. "You've certainly been earning some coin of late, huh? Seems a few days ago you were in here kipless."

Atyr nodded, paying for the blades. "Yeah, bit of a lucky break or two. I'm sure it won't last." Well you see, first a banner fell out of that wolf I told you about, and then a devil prince from the Inferno gifted me three more...

===========================

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CHAPTER FOUR

Toil and Trouble

Outside the smithy, daggers safely stowed in his pack, Atyr leaned against the corner of the building, waiting for the road to be clear a ways in both directions before he spoke, muttering under his breath.

"To the witch?"

Pesky, already slumped against his neck where she sat on his shoulder, slumped further. "Fine."

"Anything I should do before we go?"

"Reconsider?"

He nodded. "Great. Onwards."

At the eastern edge of town, he paused to slide one of the sheathed blades onto his belt. Considering a moment, he shrugged and slid the second one on as well. Couldn't hurt.

His fae companion raised a brow. "Again, if talking to Wetlyn goes so badly you need those, it's not going to matter. She was long brewing when your grandmothers were not yet come-hither looks in their mothers' eyes."

He settled his pack back onto his shoulders. "Well, if she's that ancient, it should be easy to overpower her." Pesky looked unimpressed, and he sighed. "That was a joke."

"You don't joke much."

"I haven't had much to joke about since you decided to turn my life upside down."

"I think you've made plenty of comedic decisions, personally."

He glared. "Hah. Let's go."

"Alright, dummy."

She fluttered ahead, turning off the road and making for the steep trail up the spire to the old watchtower. Atyr trudged along behind.

The way grew swiftly rocky, rough-edged hunks strewn about and buried deep in the grass turf. The trail spiraled up and up and around the steep prominence. It was a short climb to the place where the green grass ended entirely, replaced now by the jumbled fall of boulders and jagged stones. The trail picked its winding way in and among them.

Above, the lichen-covered spire jutted high out of the earth. Atyr looked behind them, out over the low hills of Woodstead. He had never before ascended to the tower, and he found himself surprised at how high it really was. From a distance it had seemed almost comparable to the knoll on which the Birdhouse sat; climbing it, it was much taller.

Shortly before midday, the trail led under an immense slab of rock which lay across the entrance to a harsh cleft twice as tall as a man. The short cliffs on either side were jagged and overhung, defying those hiking the spire to attempt to scale them. Atyr paused when he saw it; it was as though a fortress had been made of the rock of the earth, hostile and imposing. In the warlike days of the past, the small watchtower must have been all but unassailable. He breathed once, deeply, and considered everything that had lead him here in recent weeks. Shaking his head to himself, he stepped into the shadow, in under the roof of stone.

"Hey, wait a second." Pesky's voice called him back from outside. "Couple things to go over before you throw yourself into the grasp of that unpleasant old hag."

Not minding a reason to delay traipsing off into the darkness of the crevice, he stopped, turning back into the sun. "Alright, like what?"

"Like, I'm not going with you."

"Really? You tell me now, at the gate?"

"This isn't the gate, dummy, it's just a crack in the rock." She crossed her arms at him. "So dramatic. No, I'll go in under the big scary rock with you, I'm just not going into the tower."

When he raised his eyebrows at her, she continued. "Trust me, it'll go better if you're alone."

Atyr nodded slowly. Considering how Pesky had talked about the witch, that might be understandable. If her relationship with Wetlyn was anything like her relationship with Helliot seemed to be...

"Also." Pesky tapped him on the nose. "Keep it civil. Keep it polite. No jokes. Just information. Say exactly what you mean. Don't try to hide things or butter her up or anything like that. Just..."

"Just what?"

"How about we assume she's faaaar smarter than you, and the best you can hope for is that she sees some use in you. You're not going to get the upper hand in conversation, let's put it that way. Alright?"

"Fine. So I just... I walk in and say, 'Hi, I'm Atyr Bracken, can you make me something that will allow a woman I know to see the fae?"

"Fiend."

"Right."

"But yes. Pretty much." Pesky smooshed her face into her palms for a moment. "Ahkck, I hate this." She sighed. "Basically, just try, try, try not to be a dummy, yes?"

"Thank you Pesky. It feels good to have someone believe in me."

"Oh, and Atyr?" Her tone was serious now. She pointed to the crack in the rocks. "When we head in here, have your blades ready. I don't know what we might find in the shadows." She disappeared into the dark cleft.

Atyr watched her go for a moment, then tilted his head in a we'll see what happens sort of way, and stepped in after her, hand resting beside his new weaponry.

He paused just inside the entrance, letting his eyes adjust. Tall, rough walls stretched up on either side of him, shadowed and obscured. The stale scent of moss and mold hung in the air. He tightened his grip on the hilt at his side. A few paces in, the crack swung sharply to the left, and he smacked his forehead hard on a jutting angle of the wall. Stumbling back, he dropped on his ass on the damp floor, hand flying to his head. He could blood between his fingers. A reddish glow in the dark caught his mind's attention. Looking down, he noticed one of the rings surrounding his fae symbol was shining at him with a faint, misty light. It faded swiftly to nothing as he watched, the pain in his head diminishing along with it. Interesting.

"Hey Pesky?" he whispered. No response. She must have known he had a question. He made a note to ask her later.

Standing up carefully, he reached out to feel the wall. Past the turn of the crevice, the darkness completely obscured his vision. Drawing one of the daggers now, he inched forward silently, testing the floor with his toes.

Barely three paces on, the crack cut back to the right. He reached forward with a foot, and felt nothing. Crouching, he groped around for a place to step. Empty space.

He backed up slowly, pawing around for another way to go, but the walls were solid on either side.

"Pesky?" he hissed into the blackness. "Pesky, where are you?" The sound of his voice was dead in the cramped space. "Pesky, you luckless little pest, I'm stuck!"

Silence.

Working back to the edge, he felt again for the drop-off in the floor. He sat on the edge, reaching cautiously down with one leg as far as he could, but found no solid rest for his foot. With nothing else to do except retreat back to the sunlight, he ever-so-carefully swung both legs over, and wiggled his way out on his belly.

To his surprise, his feet found rock while he was still halfway on the ledge. He turned gingerly in place, and tested ahead of him. The ground continued. Running his hand along the walls, close now on either side, he found himself at a dead end.

One more time, he called softly for his fae companion. "Pesky, I swear, if I get lost in here, you'd better hope I stay lost for good."

He heard something then. Was it... a tiny bell-like giggle? It had come from below him, he thought. Getting down low on his knees, he felt the damp stone beneath him. It was solid, but a cool draft of air hushed across the floor, smelling of sun-warmed lichen. He followed it back, and found a low passage, too low even to crawl into on his knees, leading onwards.

"Of all the luckless..." Atyr began to wonder just how much he actually needed to talk to this witch. He sat in the dark for a long moment. Standing again, he felt high along the walls of the crevice, searching for another route. Finding none, he growled to himself in the lightless space, and swiftly fell to ruminating on the many injustices of his time since meeting Pesky.

Hoping then that the cliff face outside was perhaps not so daunting as he had first thought it to be, he retraced his path, up the small ledge, and around the two quick turns, finding himself swiftly back in the midday sun. The cliffs were every bit as un-scaleable as he had remembered. Not a single handhold presented itself to tempt his optimism.

He looked at the dagger in his hand, bit his lip, swore again at Pesky, and headed back into the dark of the crevice under the stone. Once more at the knee high passage, he steeled himself. He shook his head angrily, and rubbed at his face with his free hand, then dropped to his belly in the mold-sludge and squirmed his way forward into the low crack.

As soon as he was head and shoulders into the passage, he began to see a faint light ahead. A few slimy wriggles and the rock above him raised higher, and he was able to come up into a crouch. The light was enough to show dim shapes of stone in the dark. Two paces more and he could stand, seeing the light coming in stronger just above his head.

He sheathed the blade, and jumped, catching the ledge above him and working his way up into a brighter passage with close sides a man and a half high. It ran steeply up and to the left for a few paces, then turned left again where a shaft of bright sun shone on the wall. Never had a patch of light looked as beautiful as it did then.

Striding quickly forward, he turned the corner, and saw the outside world just a few steps away. He burst forth into the glare, laughing shakily to himself, and found himself face to face with a gleeful Pesky.

"Took you long enough! I'm sure you were up to all sorts of important things in there."

"You absolute, luckless little..." The laugh on his face collapsed into something like a snarl. "Any reason you couldn't have just shown me the way?"

"It's only a few paces." She gestured around them, and Atyr realized they were now just on top of the massive stone slab which covered the crevice. She flew in front of him to catch his eyes, obviously quite pleased with herself. "Not afraid of the dark, are you?"

"I'm not afraid of the dark, Pesky. I am... appropriately cautious when I have to wriggle like a worm into slimy holes underground." He glared. "Especially when a little sprite has just told me to keep my weapons ready and be prepared for anything."

She grinned at him, more devilishly than Helliot ever could.

"I thought you liked jokes?"

Atyr ignored that and looked around. The spire still stretched above them, a tumbled of fractured boulders, but they were getting closer now, the tower almost directly above them; close enough to make out windows and doors in its crumbling walls high overhead. He stared up at the ruin of the building.

"You coming all the way to the door?"

"If you need me to." Her voice was suddenly glum, the mirth completely drained from it.

He looked back at her to ask if she had any more last minute advice, and froze. A low, humanoid shape was creeping from between two of the jagged boulders behind her.

"Pesky! Behind you!"

The creature moved in a flash, fluid as a lunging wolf, an over-sized hand flying out and snatching her from the air. Atyr stumbled back, fumbling for a dagger, and the beast stared at him with tiny black eyes, one hand on the ground, the other clutching its fae prize.

It was like a human, but shorter and hunched, and many times more muscled. The skin was a mottled grey with green patches like the mossy stones around it. It raised itself up now, both massive arms above its head, and bellowed at Atyr. It wore no clothing, and he couldn't help noticing the impractically large appendage hanging between its thick legs.

He took a step back, but then set himself, drawing his other dagger and raising them both.

"Drop her, beast! Put her down!" He lunged forward at the space between them, menacing the monster.

The grey-skinned creature bellowed at him again, and, Pesky still struggling in its grasp, bounded away into the rocks of the spire. Atyr rushed forward after it, but it had vanished, moving more swiftly through the terrain than he ever could.

A rock scraped softly behind him. He spun. Three more grey, humanish forms were creeping slowly from among the tumbled boulders, looking almost like stone themselves. One of them was a male, but two were obviously female, heavy breasts swinging from their chests.

Atyr swung a blade through the air towards them, and they drew back a pace. He slashed again, both blades this time, but the three creatures didn't retreat any further. Glancing around, he found the trail running off and away behind him. Daggers held up between him and his opponents, he began to slowly back away along it. They watched him go, not moving to follow. He risked a look over his shoulder, and then snapped his gaze back to the beasts. They stood as if made of the stone of the spire.

Moving tensely, step by backwards step along the trail, he gained as much distance as he could. He stopped. Hands shaking, he slowly sheathed the blades. The creatures didn't move, watching him with their small, black eyes.

Slowly, slowly, he drew his bow and strung it. Still, they were motionless. Did they understand what a bow was? He couldn't know. He nocked an arrow, drawing halfway, sighting down the shaft at the male. It didn't move. He glanced at the other two. There was only one. He swore to himself, and drew full and loosed in one motion. The arrow sped true across the short distance, burying its large, broad head deep into the grey skin of the neck.

His victim reared back, a hollow shriek leaking from the ruined throat. Its thrashing body hit the stones, heavy arms pounding at earth and air. The remaining creature vanished back into the rocks.

Atyr didn't wait to find out where the other two had gone, or what would happen to the wounded monster; he turned and sprinted up the path, drawing a blade once more with his free hand. A warmth and a sense of accomplishment washed through him. Experience. The brief glow it granted spurred him on faster.

He rounded a corner in the trail, feet pounding over the mossy stone, and one of the beasts lunged from among the boulders. Agility born from years of running and hunting in the Brookwood saved him, and he stumbled away and fell, slashing wildly with the dagger, once, twice, again. He felt the blade bite on something hard, and the grey form drew back and vanished among the tumbled rocks.

Atyr scrambled to his feet. He was running again. The world was closing around him. He could smell the blood of the creature. He could hear his own blood in his ears. His breath rasped wildly from his throat. All he could see was the narrow track ahead, leading on and up as he dashed along it.

His chest burned, and he slowed, looking around. About him he saw only the grey stones of the spire. Still moving up the trail, he sheathed the dagger and nocked a second arrow. He kept going. On, up. On. The tower was getting closer now, maybe a few hundred paces. He slowed to a fast walk. On, on.

Light footsteps drummed rapidly behind him. He whipped around to see two of the creatures racing up the trail. He loosed the arrow, catching one of them in the arm, and the wounded thing shrieked, and fell back. Both beasts turned and loped off into the boulder field.

Atyr stood still. Chest heaving, throat tight. Moments passed, and he heard nothing but the wind among the rocks. He smelled nothing but sun-warmed stone and shrub.

Whatever these grey-skinned, human-like monsters were, they seemed to have learned to fear his bow. He tried to smile, but the taste of bile in his throat twisted the expression into something else.

He had to find Pesky. Could she possibly be alive? He remembered then, her immense, star-born form, like an angel out of tales. Surely she could handle whatever these were?

But, he still hadn't asked her about that night. Was that... last night, the night before? It seemed like a memory long past. Could she become an angel at will? And if so, what did that mean now? She certainly hadn't looked anything but helpless, held in that massive, stony fist.

He looked up at the tower, a short sprint away. The path was clear. He could be there. He could be inside, away from this pack of stone-skinned hunters.

Swallowing the lump of his better judgment in his throat, Atyr assumed the role he had grown up in; stealthy hunter in the wilds. Tracking a pack of naked, grey, human-monsters was just like stalking deer, wasn't it? He stepped off the path and faded into the mossy stones, disappearing as the beasts had done. He had to find Pesky.

Not far into the steep slopes of the boulder field, he realized the futility of his search. What was he even searching for? Where could he start? There were no tracks to follow on the hard stones, no watering spot at which to lay in wait. He knew nothing of the habits of whatever these things were. There were at least four, he knew, but how many more could there be? Perhaps the best course of action was to make it to the tower after all. Would Wetlyn be willing to help? Was Pesky still alive to need helping?

He turned, staring back up over the jumbled boulders, to where the roof of the tower was yet visible. He started towards it.

An immense weight dropped on his back and crushed him to the ground, and a grey hand gripped his shoulder hard enough to crush muscle and crack bone. Atyr yelled, pain swelling down his arm.

His face ground into the rock, tearing against the harsh surface. The strength of the monster on top of him was irresistible; he was like a child in the arms of a bear.

A hand grasped his skull, and flipped him over on his back, wrenching his neck. A squashed, grey face growled low above his own, flat teeth bared. Its breath was like death and rot and mold. The beast picked him up and slammed him back down, driving the air from him, smashing his skull violently off the jagged stones. Light flashed across his vision, and his mouth opened in a breathless scream, as agony ripped through his body. The monster slammed him again and even as the pain smeared itself across him, something within him remembered to fight.

He slashed at the face, twice with his good arm, catching it across the mouth and glancing off the forehead, spattered dark blood across the stones. With a howling scream, the crushing weight lurched off of him, and he choked in a partial breath.

Possessed of a strange fury then, Atyr launched himself after it on hands and knees, lunging against the stumbling form and driving the dagger deep into the knotted muscles of its thigh. It stuck fast, and he left it there, drawing the second blade. The thing roared its pain to the sky, and seized Atyr by the skin of his chest, lifting him and shaking him like a hound shakes a squirrel.

Atyr screamed again, but this time in rage, slashing at the arm that held him until it threw him once more to the ground. The beast drew back and pawed at the dagger in its leg, stumbling away, and again Atyr lunged after it, onto its back. It spun and thrashed, flinging the thin man around wildly, but he clung tight around its torso with his legs. He stabbed it in the face from behind, not knowing where he hit, and it leapt backwards, crushing him against a boulder.

With his last shred of clarity through the pain and chaos, Atyr reached to the front of the head, and jammed the blade home, pressing in through the eye, deep.

The monster collapsed, twitching, and rolled onto its back. It lay still.

On the edge of collapse himself, Atyr slid down the rock, slowly to the ground. With every motion, his shoulder grated and screamed at him. He couldn't move the arm.

He watched a faint mist-form rise out of the stone-grey corpse in front of him, and race into his chest. A pulse of Experience warmed him, filling him with hope. Another sensation followed immediately, like the satisfaction of Experience, but more so. It was as though something real had been achieved, like something important had happened. It was almost overwhelming.

Caught up in the exhilaration, he climbed to his feet determined and empowered, but he felt ribs scrape inside him. He fell forward onto the body, catching himself with a groan on the hot, bloody flesh.

Something hard and smooth pressed into his palm. Atyr jerked his hand back, and found a tiny corked vial there, with a dark red liquid inside that looked uncomfortably like blood. He stared at it, but couldn't bring his mind to bear. He slipped it in his pack: a question for later. For Pesky? He could only hope.

Atyr looked back at the tower where it extended over the rocks. Already, he could feel himself healing. Sharp pain still shot through his ribs, his neck ached and his shoulder still throbbed, but he could move his arm again, and the blood on his face had stopped flowing. He smiled grimly. One thing at least to thank the little sprite for if he ever saw her again.

A grey shape slunk out from behind a rock a dozen paces ahead of him. Of all the luckless, fae-cursed...

He swiftly nocked an arrow and sighted down it at the creeping predator. It drifted back into the boulders and was gone. They had learned to fear his bow indeed. He crept sideways, moving around where he had seen the form, arrow still at the ready. Another of the creatures climbed up onto a rock in the direction he now headed. Whether it was the same one or a second, he couldn't know. He took aim and it slid down the far side of the stone. Gone.

He cut straight towards the tower, but three grey shapes now crept forth a ways off, blocking his path. He ducked behind a rock and began to sneak out and around, looping far away through the boulders. Two more creatures headed him off, keeping their distance, and vanishing as soon as he lifted the bow.

He turned to head back the way he had come, but arrayed distantly among the stones and crags of the spire, he saw more shapes emerging, close to a dozen. He loosed a hopeless arrow at them, and several slipped away, only to reemerge elsewhere.

Atyr began to jog, every step sending pain through his side, and across his shoulder and up his spine. The shapes vanished whenever he tried to take aim, then reappeared, always moving slightly closer, slightly closer.

His thoughts began to melt into instinct. He moved, they moved, he aimed, they left. Sometimes he loosed an arrow, but he never knew if he hit. Slowly, he moved towards the tower, and slowly the grey creatures crept closer, forming a distant ring around him, off among the rocks. The tower was so near now. Just a short sprint to the door.

Suddenly, a beast that had snuck in close and unseen lunged forward from a shadow. Atyr loosed a shaft at it, and caught it in the chest. It screamed and shot away through the tumble, but the rest of the pack bellowed and began to chase.

Atyr took off. He raced through rock and ledge and scrub, flying on his feet, the pain of his body receding into a panic, and a dreadful hope.

They were all about him. They were closing. The tower was a bare dash away, but the beasts were ahead already. Without even an arrow nocked, he thrust the bow towards the closest of them and it fell back. He tore past, and a blur lunged for him. He slashed blindly with the arrow in his hand and the shape fell away, but still they came, and still they closed. It was too far.

He was at the edge of the tower yard now, the pack barely a leap behind him. He dashed across the open ground and flung himself towards the door, turning as he crashed into it, to place his back and make his stand.

And... nothing. Breath tearing at his chest, blood like a drum in his ears. At first he thought they had gone, vanished into the stones. But they were still there. He saw the grey shapes moving amongst the boulders, shifting here and there just beyond the edge of the clear space around the tower. They seemed unwilling, or unable, to approach.

Reaching behind him, Atyr felt for the handle and tried the door. It didn't open. In a surreal, civilized action, he rapped with his knuckles against the wood. He waited, then knocked again. Still the pack hovered within the edge of the stones.

Atyr let out a long, shaking breath. Unwilling to continue waiting for the creatures to overcome whatever held them back and race forward to make a meal of him, he pulled out the bit of the hatchet, still without a haft, and turned, praying that the door was as old and dry-rotted as it appeared. Grasping the bit in one hand, he began to hack, hewing chunks of age-softened wood out from around the latch and bolt.

He glanced behind him. The beasts were yet held at bay. A few more strikes at the wood, and he stood back. Another look behind. He kicked hard. Pain lanced across his partially healed wounds, but the wood burst asunder, and he threw himself inside, slamming it closed and leaning heavily against it.

Only then, it came into his mind that the rotten wood, now without a lock, would provide no safety from the predators outside. He would have to hope the fear of the tower continued to keep them at bay. Or whatever it was that was holding them back.

Peering through the shattered hole where the bolt had been, he could still see the shapes of his stalking hunters. Presently, from all among the boulders, over a dozen small grey motes drifted up and raced towards him, each flashing into his chest with a gentle hint of warmth. He stepped back in surprise. His heel caught against something, and a bell chimed somewhere higher in the tower. He looked down at the tripwire, taught against his boot. He shrugged. He hadn't been planning on sneaking up on the old woman anyway.

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CHAPTER FIVE

Towers and Traps

"Hullo?" Atyr called out into the dark of the tower. "Wetlyn? Sorry to intrude, I'm hear to ask for your help!" His voice echoed faintly in the cool, musty air of the room, and a soft silence fell once more.

Stepping carefully over the tripwire, he moved a few paces further in, casting a nervous eye back over his shoulder at the ruined door. "Hullo? Are you here?"

No answer came. Atyr looked around him as his eyes began to adjust to the gloom. It was a large room, round, and built of un-cut field stone; rough, grey rocks of differing sizes and shapes that looked to have been plucked from the top of the spire itself. Floor and ceiling were hewn wooden planks. The beams above him trailed long strands of ancient cobweb, dusted white and teased into ribbons that reached almost to the floor. As he stepped forward, they clung to him, breaking free in delicate, dry streamers that draped and floated behind.

Scanning the room, he looked for anything that he might use to brace the door against the waiting pack outside. A broken chair lay under one narrow window, next to a collapsed table. A wooden chest lay upturned and open against the far wall. Other broken, decaying furniture lay in places around the room, none of it hefty enough to stop the muscled forms of his pursuers. Across the floor was strewn countless summers' accumulation of detritus. Sticks, small rocks, leaves. Over everything lay a thick layer of dust, undisturbed save for his own footprints. If the old witch really lived here, she must not have entered this room in some time.

Across the room a wooden staircase spiraled upwards. If she was here, that must be the way. He called out once more. "Hullo? Wetlyn, are you here?"

Hearing nothing in response, he began to pick through the musty chaos of the floor, stepping over rodents' nests and collecting a veil of cobwebs on his arms and head.

He stopped. There was a tiny glint of light from the floor. Another tripwire. Following it with his eyes, he found the simple wood release, and then the heavy weighted net on the ceiling. Smiling to himself, he backed up. Finally, some part of this whole fae adventure that the woodsman in him could appreciate.

Leaving it undisturbed, he stepped over and continued on across the room, warier now. One wire was interesting, two was a pattern. As he passed the trap, a long string of faint mist lifted off the line and wrapped itself around his chest, vanishing into him. He took note: Experience from avoiding traps.

Ahead was a straight, clear run of floor heading to the stair. It was very straight, and very clear. Too much so. He distrusted it. Inching forward, he peered around, at the junk piled on either side of the open way, and at the dust-grey boards. At first he saw nothing, then he noticed a single plank shorter than the others, breaking at a different point, where no joist seemed to run. Looking at it, he couldn't see what effect stepping on it might have, but he walked long around it to be safe.

From the wall in front of him, a second bit of ghostly, grey mist launched itself and buried into his chest with a confident warmth. Staring at the place the Experience dart had come from, he saw a series of small holes bored into the walls. Could those somehow be rigged to fire at whoever triggered the floorboard? His respect for the old woman's cunning increased. Perhaps she could teach him something of trap-laying.

He had almost reached the bottom of the stair now. He called out once more. "Hi, Wetlyn, I'm coming up! I'm a friend!" He paused. "At least, I hope to be a friend. I wish to beg a favor of you!" As before, silence was his only answer.

The last trap was an obvious one. The landing at the bottom of the stairs was a trapdoor. No attempt had been made to hide the edges. Clearly, it would tip the unwary intruder down into... well, probably something nasty. Atyr stepped neatly across, onto the bottom step, and waited for the satisfying rush of Experience. It never came. Well, clearly he didn't have this fae-mark stuff all figured out yet.

He started up the stairs, and they collapsed under him. All at once, the risers kicked out, the treads snapped down into a ramp, the trapdoor fell open, and a tripwire sprang up behind his heels. He slid, flipped backwards over the wire, smashed his back against the rim of the opening, plunging down, down into the dark, and crashed painfully onto a cold stone floor below.

Atyr was certain his ankle was broken. It felt like a bad break, too; his foot lying with an odd orientation to the rest of his leg. He didn't even attempt to stand, waiting instead for his fae-touched healing to knit bone and soothe tendons.

It was almost perfectly dark in the room where he sat, tumbled against the wall like a child's doll, forgotten in a corner. The only light was the thin glimmering rectangle around the edge of the trapdoor, now closed again above him. Through the pain, he nevertheless had to admire the cleverness of that one, both the ingenuity of the trap, and the craftsmanship it must have required.

In the dark, he noticed what he had before in the crevice under the great stone: not quite a light, but the idea of a light. The symbols on his arm glowed in his mind, two rings around the border of the fae-mark; a dull red, and a foggy grey. More questions, always more questions...

The floor was dry, no groundwater seeped in it seemed, here at the peak of the spire. Atyr wondered if he could find anything to make a small light. Casting about him in the blind darkness, he could feel nothing but dirt and pebbles, scattered across the flagstones.

He wanted to stand, to try to find a way out of this cellar, or dungeon, whatever it was, but his ankle still hung at a revolting angle. The healing seemed to be taking longer, perhaps due to the damage to the bones. Dragging himself painfully across the floor, he felt a variety of objects. Larger rocks, various bits of some sort of fabric, assorted leavings of the long years, and finally, what he sought; a pile of small sticks, dry with age. Further scrounging rewarded him with two small coins, kips, he assumed, and more importantly, a few bits of straw. Forgetting his new purse, he dropped the kips into his pack, and collected the dry stalks.

Carefully arranging his yet unhealed ankle on the floor, he settled himself and set up a small pile of the straw. Then, by touch, he set some of the smallest sticks in one pile, and slightly larger ones in another. He pulled out his strike-light, and set to work getting a good spark to catch. The dry tinder flared, and a whiff of harsh smoke hit his nostrils. He swiftly fed some of the smallest kindling into the little fire. It didn't light. Working swiftly before the tinder was burnt up, he slid out his belt knife and set to work shaving the sticks into the flame. The little flicker of yellow was dying. He tried to breath more life into it, but it was fading fast into a red glow. Then it was gone, and the darkness fell again.

Not giving up on light, Atyr opened up his pack, carefully removing objects one at a time, and setting them aside neatly. There must be something he could use among the contents. He tried to remember, did he still have any dry tinder saved? Likely not, he hadn't expected to need it in Woodstead. His hand found the cool, smooth shape of the tiny vial of blood-like liquid and he rolled it idly between his fingers. First the coin had fallen from the dead wolf, pressed into his palm. Now this strange glass bottle, appearing under his hand as he fell onto the body of the grey-skinned monster... As with the tripwires, once was odd, twice made a pattern.

He hardly had time to consider the meaning of the coin and bottle, when the trap door dropped open again above him. Blinking at the suddenness of the dim light, he saw a woman's form silhouetted. She reached out over the hole and dropped something small that glinted as it fell. He heard glass smash as the object hit the stones in front of him, and a pungent aroma like wine and crushed flowers washed over him. The door swung closed above him. His head began to fuzz over, and the pain faded. His nervous energy melted into a calm, relaxed acceptance. Things didn't matter so much. It was fine. This was fine. He wanted to rest. He felt heavy, heavy, too heavy to move. He would sit a while...

A small crack sounded, and now a harsh scent like smelted metal filled his nose. Slowly, the room flared into an odd, purple glow that seemed to come from nowhere in particular, and left no shadows. The fae light drew forth bright, uncommon hues from many of the objects about him. It was very pretty. Like nothing he'd ever seen. He looked at his hands and found they glowed slightly as well. That brought a happy smile to his face. He looked around him where he sat, at his possessions, and at the glowing white sticks he had tried to burn. He realized dimly why they hadn't lit. He wasn't the first to have fallen into this trap. They were bones. Wasn't that silly of him, trying to start a fire with bones...

"I will not stop you if you wish to drink that." The crisp, clear voice was that of a young woman, and came from immediately behind him.

He blinked slowly. It was a pretty voice. He liked it. Tilting his head back lazily to look for the source, he leaned too far, falling over and bouncing his skull against the dirty stone. It probably hurt, he supposed.

"Stand up." The woman's voice came again, and he looked around, finding her now. She was young, and beautiful. So beautiful. As he gazed at her face, glowing with the unearthly light, he was certain he had never met a person as beautiful as this woman. He grinned at her.

"Stand up," she said again, and he did.

His ankle collapsed and he fell limply back to the ground. He'd forgotten about that. He looked at the foot, it was facing partway backwards. He frowned slightly. That wasn't how it should be, was it?

The beautiful woman spoke again. "Drink it. I am busy and this is wasting my time."

He blinked at her, trying to find his words. "... Hmmmmm?"

She stared down at him for a moment. So beautiful... She stooped, carefully pulled the small vial from his hand with her finger and thumb, uncorked it, and handed it back to him.

"Drink." He did. The red liquid poured down his throat. Heat rushed through him, and his whole body felt momentarily alive, alive in some way he didn't know he could be. He lay back onto the floor, enjoying the sensation, and gazing at this wonderful lady who had found him.

She stood beside him, waiting in silence, then reiterated her previous command. "Stand up. You're ready."

He stood. His ankle was fine. Oh, that was nice...

"Walk that way." She indicated an open door behind him, darkness behind it. He nodded and smiled. That was how she got in here. Oh a door, oh that made sense. He walked through it, and she followed behind.

She slipped past him in the narrow hall, and he followed her drowsily down it, and through another door, and up some stairs, or maybe... down some stairs? There was a door, anyway, he was sure of that. Or maybe that was the first door again he was remembering. It didn't matter. The warm air of a new room flowed around him, soothing him with the smells of old books and indeterminate spices.

"Sit." She pointed to a large chair. It looked so very comfy. He sat. It was. It was so very comfy. He wiggled his way back into the soft cushions. The beautiful woman leaned over him, her low-cut dress hanging down to reveal the delectable cleavage within. He stared contentedly at her breasts as she clamped the metal restraints on the arms of the chair tightly around his wrists.

"Smell." She held a small glass tube under his nose. Happily, he sniffed it. A clear, cutting odor like nothing he had ever experienced shot up his nose and brought with it the panic of drowning. His head jerked back and his eyes filled with tears. He choked, and gasped, then drew in a long, full breath as the room clarified in his vision.

"What in the fae-cursed, luckless fates is going on!?" He stared wildly around him, the sudden motion of his head sending a sharp pain down his injured neck. The room was immaculate, a gorgeous study with rich wood trim and red and purple drapery in abundance. Shelves of books lined the walls, and an ornate writing desk stood under the large window. He collected himself and stared up at the woman.

"Returning is often disorienting. No apology for the outburst is necessary." Her face was impassive. "You are now fully aware?"

Looking at her, he realized his previous assessment, however addled, had been correct. She very likely was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Probably only a handful of summers beyond his own score, her youthful features nevertheless held an austere sophistication. White hair flowed long around her shoulders like a veil, draped over the red and purple silks of her dress. He hadn't realized witches would have apprentices, or servants, or whoever this young woman was, but if he had imagined them, he would have pictured some sort of small, twisted, impish creature, not this. Not her.

Keeping his thoughts off his face as much as possible, and remembering he was here to ask favors, he answered her as politely as he could. "Yes. Thanks. I feel... pretty normal I guess." Except for having just escaped a pack of grey, mannish monsters and then falling into a dungeon and having my wits stolen and then returned to me as I find myself locked in a chair in a witch's tower, pretty normal, yeh.

"Good. You will answer my questions." It wasn't actually a question in itself, but she looked to him, as if requiring a response.

"Um... I hate to interrupt, but my friend is still out there with the, the grey monsters, they grabbed--"

"If your friend was taken they are likely dead."

Atyr swallowed, and shifted in his chair. His ribs throbbed angrily at him. He winced. "If you could help me, if we could check--"

"The trolls do not save their prey alive. He is dead."

He tilted his head. Trolls, is that what they were? "I'm really sorry, but I can't give up on her that easily. If you can just let me go I can go look for her myself. Please."

Cold eyes considered him for a moment. "A woman? She is your friend? Or your lover?"

He shook his head swiftly. "Friend, not a lover. Definitely not. But also not a woman, she's one of the fae. A sprite."

"A sprite? You come with surprises. Nevertheless, she will be dead by now."

"Please, if I could just talk to Wetlyn. I think she knows my friend. Could you tell her that the sprite Pesky is out there, and that she needs help? I know they aren't on the best of terms, but--"

"Pesky." The young woman cut him off. "Your friend."

He nodded, noting a sudden stiffness to her face. "Look, I don't know what's between the two of them, if you think it's a bad idea to mention her to your master we don't have to, but please, I can't leave her out there alone." He chewed his lip, looking down at his restrained wrists.

The voice was cold now. "I doubt she is in need of any aid you can provide." She paused. "I do worry for the trolls."

Atyr was unconvinced, but he didn't know how to proceed.

She spoke again. "For what do you wish to see Wetlyn?"

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. Pesky had urged him to hide nothing and speak plainly with the witch, but did that apply to her underlings as well? He decided to play it safe with a limited explanation. "A friend of mine, an elderly woman, is in need of magic. I was hoping I could ask Wetlyn to help. I could be of service to her however she saw fit in return."

"What 'magic' do you require?"

"I... it's actually pretty complicated, and I'm not sure myself. I was hoping if I could talk to her, I could explain the situation and maybe she could... suggest something?" He shrugged, realizing how completely unprepared he had been for all of this, from the moment he started up the spire this morning. And it was hardly past midday.

The young woman stared at him a long moment, her face betraying nothing of her thoughts. She turned and walked over to the desk, pulled out the chair and slid it across the room, placing it directly in front of Atyr where he sat restrained.

She sat neatly down upon it, back straight, one leg crossed across the other, hands lightly clasped in her lap. She looked at him, eyes unblinking in her elegant face.

"Very well. I am Wetlyn. You may make your request, but first I have my own questions."

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CHAPTER SIX

Explicit Instructions

The words popped out of his mouth before Atyr could consider them. "You are Wetlyn? Pesky--" He stopped short.

"She lead you to expect something different?"

He looked down at his feet. "Uhh, no, Pesky didn't. Not exactly, I just..." The little sprite's reminder to be honest and to avoid flattery came back to him. "Well yes actually, she did. And in stories, witches are old and ugly."

"While I am youthful and beautiful." It was a statement, not a question. His eyes looked up at her face, then helplessly raked down her body and back. He nodded, reddening. Almost, it seemed that a hint of a smile flirted with the corners of her full lips.

Wetlyn inclined her head. "We may come to that topic. For now, know that I have been in this world for scores of winters. I am youthful but not young."

Atyr was still staring at his feet, cheeks hot. He spread his hands where they were held restrained, flinching slightly as the motion aggravated his bruised shoulder. "Right. I guess fae don't really age."

"I am not fae."

His head shot back up. Of the four 'fae' he'd now met, fully half of them had turned out not to be.

"Now I will ask my questions." She stared into his eyes, her look bland, unreadable. "You will provide brief, accurate answers. If I need further clarification from you, I will indicate it."

Were her eyes violet? Did people have violet eyes? Holding her gaze, he nodded apprehensively.

"Good. I will begin. Why did you break down my door?"

He started to protest. "I knocked first--"

"That is not an answer. Are you in the habit of breaking down the doors to peoples' homes should they not respond to your knocking?"

Well, put that way... He dropped his gaze, uncertain how to respond.

"I ask again, why did you break down my door?"

Eyes still on the floor, he tried again. "I was trying to escape the creatures outside. The trolls."

"Did they follow you to the tower?"

"Not to the tower, no, but I--"

"Why could you not wait outside?"

Atyr paused. "I... I don't know. I suppose I could have."

"You could."

He flexed his hands nervously within the metal cuffs.

"I... I can fix it. I am decently skilled with wood shaping. My father--"

"That would be appropriate recompense. I accept. Next question. Why were you on the spire?"

"I hoped to ask for your help."

"Why was Pesky with you?"

"She's my... I don't know what to call it. She saved me, and she gave me--." He hesitated. Don't try to hide things. That's what Pesky had said. He nodded to his arm, locked to the chair. "There's a mark there, a--"

"I am aware that you are fae-touched. She is your patron?'

"Patron? Um, yes, I suppose?"

The face in front of him reacted to that, a tiny flicker of those elegant brows. She lifted his sleeve and glanced at the mark, noting the dull, grey glow. "I will wait if you wish to complete your Level. I should prefer to have this conversation without the distraction of pain."

Atyr looked at her blankly. Honesty. Don't try to hide anything. "I uh, don't actually know what that means. I know what a Level is, I think, but I'm not sure what you mean by--"

"I am not surprised. I know your patron. I know her well." She nodded to herself. "The glow of your fae-mark indicates that you have accumulated sufficient Experience to advance your Level." She paused catching his eyes. "I must assume your Level is 0, given your ignorance on the subject."

He looked to the side, but nodded his assent, chewing on his lower lip.

"If you focus your attention on the Experience measure within your mark, you should intuit how to proceed." Violet eyes looked at him expectantly.

"Ah. Right." He looked down, then back up. "That's the grey circle, I assume?" He wanted to point, but, restrained as he was, he could not.

Wetlyn paused, then stood. "One cannot see into another's fae-mark. I do not know whether each mark is truly unique, or if there are only many variants, but in either case, it is difficult for me to direct you." She leaned forward, reaching out and guiding his chin with a long, delicate nail, so that they were face to face. "If you will permit it, I can look into your mark with you." As seemed to be her style, it was a statement that nevertheless demanded an answer.

He remembered Helliot's warning against allowing others to have knowledge of his symbol, but here, in the presence of this beautiful, powerful witch, already restrained in his seat, how much did he stand to lose? "Alright. I can use all the help I can get."

She nodded once, pulling away. Walking across the room, she opened a large, ornate wooden cabinet. Inside, Atyr caught a glimpse of row upon row of glass vials, of different shapes, sizes, and colors. She selected one and closed the cabinet, before returning to sit in front of him.

She held the tiny bottle aloft. It was empty. "This is a potion of True Sight," she explained. He frowned, looking at the clear glass in her hand. "With it, a person can see all that is around them. Including fae-marks. You consent?"

Atyr's eyes widened. True Sight? It let you see everything? Would it let an elderly healer see a devil? He stored the question for later.

Wetlyn was still looking at him. Again, she asked. "You consent?" He nodded.

She tipped the empty bottle into her mouth, swallowing as though it held something to drink within. He watched, enraptured as the delicate muscles of her throat worked. He shook himself, and found she was staring at him again. Reaching out with a graceful hand, she slid up the grimy sleeve of his shirt, revealing his mark.

"Interesting. Ranger and Rogue. Yes. This." She indicated the grey circle, gently glowing. "This is the measure of your Experience. Focus on it, with the intent to seize it with your mind."

He tried to do what she said. At first, nothing much happened, but then he found the understanding of the symbol floating up to him. He fumbled for a grasp on it. It felt like a question, like an offer. He accepted, and all at once the grey circle emptied and stopped glowing. A wild excitement grew in him, a feeling of growth, of surpassing, of possibility and success. Physically too, it was as though a wind was rushing over and around him, blowing pain and injury away.

Looking down at the symbol, he found the central class markings had updated; Rogue still sat at 0, but Ranger was now Level 1.

He moved his shoulder. It was as if nothing had happened to it. He tried breathing deep, and felt no pain from his ribs. His neck was no longer stiff, and the throb of his ankle had vanished.

"Huh. Alright." He looked at Wetlyn, wide-eyed. "I wasn't ready for that."

Steady eyes looked back into his, then dropped back to the mark. She pointed to the whorled pattern that held his Attributes. "Focus now here. You will feel a mote, loose within the measures. Seize it and place it where you will." She looked into his eyes once more. "The manner in which you acquire Experience will limit the choices you may make. Go ahead."

He nodded, breaking away from her gaze. He let himself drift back into the pattern, and immediately noticed that the grey circle of experience was already over a third full once more. Interesting. But there was the mote as well, like a small, lost bit of possibility, wanting a home but not knowing where that home was.

Charm 8, was his lowest Attribute, after Fate 7. He didn't understand Fate at all, and wasn't sure if he wanted more of whatever it was. Charm... He would be lying to himself if he said didn't like the idea of being a bit more charming, a bit more alluring. Is that how this worked? He would change, improve as a person just by choosing one of these measures? Tentatively, he urged the mote closer to Charm, but it slid away sideways. He tried again, with the same result.

"You will have to make do with what little social grace you currently possess."

He jumped. He hadn't realized she could see everything he was doing. His cheeks flushed bright red. "I um, I was just trying to see how it worked..."

Her stare was cold. "You did not Charm your way through to Level one, it would seem. Note the measures which shine more strongly."

He looked again, and realized that Strength 12, Vitality 10 and Dexterity 14 were all slightly brighter than the other five. That made sense, most of the experience he'd received involved either fighting or sneaking. Vitality was the lowest, and honestly it was starting to seem like being able to survive a solid thrashing might be important for his new fae-touched life. He nudged the mote towards Vitality, and it slid right over.

Again he felt that question, the offer of a choice. Yes. The mote vanished, and he watched as Vitality ticked up to 11. He didn't feel any different.

"Excuse me, Wetlyn? Can I ask a question?"

"In a moment. We have more. Look here. You have gained your first Ability. Read."

It wasn't reading, precisely, but he stared into the swirls and jagged lines of the symbol, and found the meaning there.

"Unarmoured Defense" - Everyday garments provide protection from injury, taking damage onto themselves which would otherwise harm the wearer.

Atyr's eyes were wide. "Does this mean my clothes, my regular, everyday clothing, will work like armour?"

"That is roughly what it appears to indicate, yes. How it will play out in actuality, you will need to test."

That sounded like something out of a childhood tale. Until now, he hadn't fully understood what Helliot had meant when he had told Atyr that the abilities he gained might seem improbable, or even impossible.

"May I ask the question now?"

Wetlyn stared at him, her face unreadable. She didn't speak. He guessed that counted as a yes.

"How does this fae healing work? The red circle glows sometimes; when I'm hurt I think? And I heal fast, really fast. But earlier, my ankle didn't heal. I uh... I guess I'm not sure what exactly my question is. I just don't understand it all."

She nodded, long, white hair swinging slightly. "It has a simple explanation. When injured, your body will immediately work to stop the worst of the trauma. Bleeding, bone fractures, and so forth. As you sleep, any remaining damage will reverse itself. Within reason.

"However, there is a limit to how much your body can cope with in a given day. Each injury drains your body's ability to heal by a proportional amount. This is indicated by the red circle you mentioned. As that circle empties, so does your healing. If that circle becomes empty, it indicates that your body is incapable of further healing without rest, and further wounds will act as you would expect them to on any other mortal. Even these wounds, however, will be reversed as you sleep. Again, within reason.

"Lastly, this is no protection against immediate death. A severed head is a severed head."

He nodded. That was perfectly clear, and simple to understand. He had expected something more arcane, more fae. "And, uh, that red liquid I drank, that healed me too. How exactly did that work?"

For the first time she almost looked surprised. "It was a rejuvenative mixture of some sort. A potion of healing I suspect." She glanced down at him. "How is it that you came by such a item without understanding its effects? They are not commonplace."

"It, uh... I found it on the body of one of the trolls."

For a second time, she seemed surprised, even if her face didn't show it. "You slew a troll?" Her eyes ran across his slim form, appraisingly. "That would be impressive." Atyr got the distinct idea she didn't believe him.

She continued. "Such potions work in a variety of ways, but most commonly, they restore the body's ability for quick-healing, allowing the process to proceed further."

Atyr considered her explanations. It entered his mind briefly, how much better things might have turned out if he had found Wetlyn before he encountered Helliot, and had gotten his explanations from her. That said, he was still restrained in a chair, so things weren't perfect.

"Next question." As she spoke, a tiny wisp of grey experience rose from her distractingly perfect chest, and buried itself swiftly in Atyr's own. Just from her explanation?

"For what reason did you seek my help?"

"Oh, uh I'm trying to help someone I know. I got them in trouble, I think, and now I need to get them out."

"Explain."

Atyr sighed inwardly, thinking for a moment. "I'm not sure I can make this brief."

"Try."

He gave the shortest, clearest explanation he could of his meeting with Helliot, the deals they had struck, and the implications for Bird and Kella. She seemed familiar with Bird and Helliot, and to know something of their history. Her flat, even expression was maintained throughout.

"I see. Either the old woman dies, or the girl becomes tied to the devil as you are to the Sprite." As she said the word 'sprite', Atyr fancied that the slightest bit of venom sneaked into her voice, a tiny break in her perfect composure. "Why do you oppose the girl's potential pact with Helliot?"

"He's a prince of the Inferno. It seems... risky."

Her stare remained emotionless. "What do you hope to gain by my aid?"

Atyr bit his lip and breathed in. This was it. "I was hoping, I thought maybe you would know a way to let Bird talk to Helliot? So she could reject the agreement and send him home?"

Violet eyes looked at him, unblinking. "I do not know a way."

"Um, I was wondering if you had more of those True Sight vials? Would something like that work?"

"It would not. As I understand it, speech is what is required."

Atyr nodded. She was right. "Maybe... is there something like that potion, but for hearing?"

Wetlyn paused. "I do not know."

She stood, pushing the chair back toward the desk. "I will accept your repair of my door as recompense for your intrusion into my home. There is still the matter of recompense for the assistance and information I have granted you while here."

Atyr tried to think of something to say. Was that it? Was the conversation over just like that? 'I don't know,' and then a move to other topics?

"Please, maybe there's something you can think of, some way to make it happen? I'm happy to be of service however would be useful, if I can, I..." He ran out of things to say.

"We can discuss further possibilities once your current indebtedness has been covered."

Atyr kept his eyes on the floor, heat rising in him. He willed himself calm, clenching his restrained fists in their bindings.

"You are angry that I am not helping you. I have not refused, yet. We will talk more. But first." She stood in front of him. "Your debt."

Still not meeting her gaze, he nodded slowly.

She reached down and lifted his chin. "How old do I seem to you."

The rapid shift in topic caught him off balance. "Uhh, a few summer's beyond me? Twenty five?" Her stare bored into him. "Erm, certainly less than thirty?"

She dropped his face. "Over five score winter's have passed since I gained my fae-mark." She touched her own arm.

"You may think it vain, that I choose this appearance. That of youth, of beauty."

He shook his head, hurriedly. It occurred to him that if Wetlyn herself was fae-touched, and was aware of the dynamic between Bird and Helliot, she presumably could have solved the devil's communication problems for him score of summer's ago, had she been so inclined. It spoke, perhaps, to the magnitude of Atyr's error that she had not.

She stepped closer, standing now against the chair, between his knees. He stared up at her. Purple and red silk draped and clung to the curves of her body.

"You may think it. And yet I choose it. What is my alternative? To grow old, to weaken, to become ill and infirm. To become ugly with age." She placed one knee upon his thigh, leaning over him in the chair. "I prefer beauty."

He felt himself hardening rapidly in his pants. He wanted to shift, to hide the growing bulge, but she held his leg in place, and his hands remained locked to the chair with steel cuffs.

Her eyes dropped briefly to the outline of his cock, straining against the laces. Then she stepped away, turning her back to him. The dress clung to her every bit as much from behind as from the front. Lust rose within the young man.

She tilted her hips, resting her weight on one leg, and looked back at him. His eyes snapped guiltily away from the round curves of her ass.

"It is not without cost. It requires work to maintain. It requires long toil with cauldron and mortar." She turned to face him once more. "It requires certain ingredients, which contain the properties of youth and the creation of new life."

Atyr stared at her without any idea what she was talking about. He nodded slowly anyway.

"Allow me to collect your seed. I will consider that acceptable recompense for the assistance I have provided."

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CHAPTER SEVEN

A Bath and a Bench

Allow me to collect your seed.

Those words hung long in Atyr's ears as he tried to decipher them. There was, of course, an obvious meaning, but the embarrassed young woodsman found himself utterly unwilling to acknowledge that she had just asked him to... well, to come inside her, it sounded like.

Then again, she had just half straddled his lap, all while talking about 'the creation of new life'. What other conclusion could he come to? His cock pressed up eagerly; that was one part of him at least that had no difficulty accepting the meaning of her words.

Wetlyn's implacable gaze remained fixed on him. "If that is an issue, we can discuss alternative methods of payment. Most young men would be eager at the opportunity to engage with me." She looked down at the outline of his penis, clearly defined in his pants, then locked her violet eyes back on his own. "Forgive me if I have misread your arousal."

Fates, she did mean it. He shook his head vigorously. "No! yes, I.. I mean I would love to-- You're very attractive, it's just--" He thought of Kella, dark eyes filled with laughter, pulling herself up to him in the stream, lips pressing soft against his own... "It's just, there's a woman in town..."

The witch nodded. "Understood. If you do not wish to provide me with your seed, we will discuss alternatives."

Atyr considered. He did have one piece of information which might be valuable to her, the quest offer from Gant. "Um, I think I know something which might be helpful to you."

Her gorgeous features remained unreadable. "And what is that?"

"If I tell you, will you let me go?"

"You are not my prisoner." When Atyr's eyes flicked down to his restrained wrists on the arms of the chair, she continued. "A brief story. This afternoon, a strange man, one apparently capable of slaying a troll, broke down a woman's door, forced his way into her home, and attempted to track her down where she hid from him upstairs. Fortunately, she was able to outwit the man, restraining him for her own safety."

Atyr considered that perspective on recent events, and found he couldn't much argue with it. His stomach twisted, and he fixed his eyes on his feet.

Wetlyn continued, resonant voice mild as ever. "I have not lived for over six score winters by taking chances with my life. My only use for young men such as yourself is as a source of a vital component. And occasionally pleasure. Neither use is satisfactory under duress. You may leave whenever you wish."

He nodded, not quite able to meet her eyes. Silence fell.

She spoke again. "I have freely provided you with such information as I have in the hope that it will aid you. Should you desire further assistance you would do well to demonstrate your willingness to make this relationship reciprocal."

Right. She hadn't held anything hostage from him, yet here he was trying to dangle important knowledge in front of her as something to be bargained for. He sucked on his lower lip, then looked up into her face. Say exactly what you mean. Don't try to hide things...

"In town, someone offered to pay me to get rid of you."

Her face betrayed no reaction. He couldn't tell if this came as a surprise to her or not.

"Who?" Her voice was as uninflected as ever.

Atyr didn't want to throw Gant to the wolves, or to the witch, as it were. Don't try to hide things... "Alright, first understand that he didn't seem to know what he had said to me. Pesky says he doesn't actually know anything abou--"

"I understand how immortals communicate their offers of employment to us."

"... Right. Well it was the innkeeper down in Woodstead, but again he--"

"I remember Gant Keppin. I am certain he would wish me gone, if he knew I were here, but I have no doubt he is innocent. Thank you."

Atyr nodded, hoping the exchange of information for information would be accepted as a fair trade. And apparently, it was.

"I will look into it. Am I to understand you wish now to leave?"

He shrugged, looking into her face imploringly. "Are you sure there's nothing I could do for you that you might need? I hate to leave without at least some hope for Bird, the old healer."

"I have expressed to you what I desire." She looked meaningfully between his legs. "If you are unwilling to assist me, I can think of no other use to which I might put you."

His cock responded eagerly to her glance, and he swallowed. "I... If I were to help you, would you be able to make something to let Bird talk to this devil? Helliot?"

She took note of the twitch in his pants. "I do not know. I would be more inclined to research possibilities."

Atyr lost himself in his thoughts momentarily, struggling between a sense of romantic loyalty to Kella, and his duty to correct for his error in making the deal with Helliot. It was obvious what the correct decision was: the unselfish decision, the decision with greater moral weight.

And... he couldn't lie to himself. This slender woman, all draped in close-clinging silks, with purple eyes and white-silver hair... she was truly the most beautiful person he could imagine. He tried to keep in mind that she had specifically crafted her appearance towards that end, and her true age, but it didn't matter. His mind wandered to just how she might want to 'collect his seed.' Inside her?... Inside her where?

"I'll do it." He had actually meant to say more, but his throat closed up as he spoke, and all thought of other words scattered into a nervous lust.

The witch nodded curtly, then turned away and walked around behind Atyr, out of his field of vision. He heard cabinet doors open and shut, then felt her trailing sleeves brush his shoulders as she clasped something cold and metal firmly about his neck.

She walked back in front of him. In her fingers, he saw a tiny stick of some sort, barely more than a splinter. It looked like ordinary wood.

She looked him up and down. "I will not touch you in your current state." Atyr looked at himself. He couldn't blame her. Grime and mold from the stone crevice, troll blood, his own blood: he wouldn't like to touch himself in this state either.

"I will release you now," she said. "In order that you might bathe before your orgasm." His cock leapt at the word. "Know that the collar around your neck holds contained within it a powerful magic detonation, one which you would not survive. That detonation is bound and restrained by this." She held up the sliver of wood. "Should I break this wood, I break what restrains the detonation."

Atyr found his arousal swiftly smothered by a cold chill. He held very still, then nodded.

"I have not lived my long years by being incautious."

He nodded again.

Holding the splinter in view between the fingers of one hand, she reached under the chair and released one of the metal cuffs with held Atyr in place. She stepped back.

"If you run your fingers under the arm of the chair, you will find a small lever. Pull it and you may release your other arm."

He followed her instructions in silence, moving slowly and cautiously.

"Good. Follow me." She lead him across the room, and into a small alcove, in the center of which an ornate, wooden tub stood, empty. She pulled a rope that hung along the wall, and steaming water began to pour into it from a spigot in the wall.

Atyr stared in amazement. "How...?"

"There is a cistern in the attic into which rain is collected. It is heated by a long-burning fire of my own design." He thought he could detect pride behind the flat delivery.

"Strip." Her voice was neutral as ever.

The young man hesitated. She looked at him calmly. "I am to bring you to orgasm shortly. Modesty is unreasonable."

Swallowing, he began removing his clothes with shaking hands. His cock stiffened further, pressing his pants firmly outward, ready to be freed. He unbuttoned his vest. Violet eyes stared into his, and he couldn't look away as he pulled the garment off and let it fall to the wood floor.

His hands went now to the laces of his shirt, fingers stumbling with the thin cord. Her eyes dropped to watch as the cloth opened across his chest, impassive, showing nothing of her thoughts. He lifted the shirt over his head, hands brushing the metal collar. The danger it represented sent a thrill through him.

The shirt joined the vest on the floor, and he glanced back at the witch. Her eyes were tracking slowly across his torso, carefully examining his thin form, lingering on the gentle shading of the muscles beneath the skin of his stomach. Was she aroused as well, or merely studying him?

Awkwardly, he kicked off his boots. Only the pants were left. Atyr hesitated, unsure how to proceed, and glanced at the tub. It was nearly half filled already. Looking back at the beautiful woman barely an arms length in front of him, he found her eyes on his face once more.

She tugged again on the rope, and the splashing of the water stopped. A deep quiet fell over the room, disturbed only by Atyr's unsteady breaths. She said nothing, only stared.

Biting his lip, he nodded once. His hands went to the laces of his pants, and he began to untie them, the fabric sagging as the cord loosened, allowing his hard cock to push further outward. Her eyes dropped to the protruding bulge, at the tip of which a tiny wet mark was beginning to form. Atyr turned away, hooking his thumbs into the waistband, and made to pull the pants down.

"Face me." Her sudden command stopped his hands dead, sending a thrill through him. Slowly, he turned back and met her eyes. Her face still showed nothing, but her eyes snapped down and locked onto his cock as it bounced free.

She gestured to the tub. "Bathe."

Atyr got in. The water was hot against his skin. He began to sit but again her voice brought him up short. "No. Stand."

She handed him a rough cloth from a shelf beside her, then stood back, face emotionless. Atyr stood a moment in uncertainty, then dipped the cloth into the water, and began to scrub his skin clean. She followed his hands closely as he washed first his face, then shoulders, back, and chest.

He watched her as she watched him. All the while, she held the splinter of wood up between them: the tiny sliver that held his life. When he reached his stomach, her face didn't move, but he saw a brief tension in her throat as she swallowed slightly. Perhaps he wasn't the only one aroused. A pleasurable confidence began to fill him, and he took extra time now, making sure ever part of his stomach was clean, tensing his muscles, watching her for any other reaction. Nothing more.

Slowly, he began to wash his hips, then his thighs, eyes locked on her placid face. He couldn't be sure, but he thought her gaze had widened slightly. Wetting the cloth once more, he raised it, making as though to wash his straining cock, then stopped. Now he saw it for certain: for a fraction of a moment, her lips had parted.

He turned away from her, denying her view of his arousal, and washed his ass, first one cheek and then the other, flexing the strong muscles there as he did. He knew her eyes would be fixed on him. Facing her again, he dipped the cloth and held it, water trickling from between his fingers.

"Wetlyn," he said. Her eyes lingered on his penis, then blinked, slowly raising to meet his own.

"Yes?" Her voice was flat as ever, no tremble, no unsteady tone betraying her. A century of practice, he recalled.

He smiled at her, then slowly wrapped the warm, dripping cloth around his shaft. The hot pressure of it broke his own tenuous composure, but he was rewarded by a small intake of breath from the woman.

He began to stroke, making certain to be as thorough as could be desired. More thorough, even. Her features relaxed, just for an instant, lips parting, brows lifting. Atyr wrapped a second hand around himself now, below the first, and continued his motion, up and down, up and down. The heat against the thin skin of his cock was incredible, and her eyes on him only intensified his arousal. If he wasn't careful, he was going to waste that 'seed' she wanted right here, into the hot water.

Wetlyn swallowed a second time, a tiny motion, almost undetectable, then her face reset, fully composed once more. She looked away from his cock and the hands working it.

"That is sufficient. Let us return."

Atyr grinned. Sufficient. No matter how stoic she fancied herself, he'd seen enough to know better. He let the cloth fall away, baring all to the cool air of the tower. She indicated a larger towel on the shelf.

"Dry yourself and meet me in the other room." As she left, a grey mist-form drifted out of her back: a blurred shadow of her. A nude shadow. It flashed across the chamber and vanished inside him with the now-familiar sensation of warmth and accomplishment. Atyr tilted his head. He wasn't certain what about the situation here had granted him experience, but he wasn't about to complain. He checked his arm. The grey circle was over half filled.

Drying himself quickly, he hesitated at the door. He couldn't put his filthy garments back on, but should he wrap the towel around himself, or stride out as he was? He smiled. Modesty wasn't really possible anymore. Dropping the towel to the floor, he re-entered the room.

Wetlyn was waiting for him, standing calmly by a low stone bench. He approached her, uncertain how to proceed, and glanced down. Two steel restraints, like those on the chair, were affixed to the stone. He looked back to the witch, a question in his eyes.

She pointed at the bench. "You will lock one of your wrists firmly in a restraint. I will secure the other."

"Even with this, you still don't trust me?" He touched the metal collar, attempting a flirtatious smile.

"Oblige me." Her voice brooked no argument.

Atyr blinked, but knelt on the floor, placing his left arm on the stone. He closed the steel restraint on its hinges, feeling it lock firmly into place, and looked up at her. Still holding the thin piece of wood, she bent down and locked tight his other arm. Then, she reached to the back of his neck, and unclasped the collar. She placed collar and splinter beside him on the stone, a reminder of the dangers, potential and unknown, of the woman he was with.

"So..." He stared at his hands, immobile in their metal cuffs. "How do we... you know, with me like this?" He was kneeling on the floor, hands locked to the stone bench, with his aching cock twitching between his legs.

The witch eyed him dispassionately, then knelt beside him. Placing her warm hand on the bare skin of his lower stomach, she applied gentle pressure upwards.

"Stand." He blinked, not sure what was about to happen, but obeyed. Straightening his legs put him in an awkward, and utterly exposing position. Bent over at the waist, arms fixed to the low bench, hard cock pointed at the floor. His cheeks began to burn.

"This position is the most efficient, I find." He watched her enticing form as she walked across the room to the cabinet with all the vials, selected one, and returned to where he stood, bent and restrained. She placed a foot between his ankles, kicking them apart gently to spread his legs.

She knelt beside him once again and placed the wide mouthed bottle on the bench.

"I will begin." Another statement that was actually a question. Atyr's face was hot with embarrassment, but he was shaking all over with the tingling heat in his stomach. He closed his eyes and nodded.

"Good." Warm, smooth hands wrapped themselves firmly around the tight skin of his shaft, squeezing slightly. Atyr felt a drop of pre-cum force its way out in response. He moaned softly.

The cool voice came from beside him. "This will take some time." What was left of his composure broke as one palm rubbed across the tip, gathering the sticky lubricant that was accumulating there. She grasped him again, squeezing once more, rolling her fingers in her grip to massage him. He was almost unbearably sensitive.

The other hand, still wrapped around him, began to stroke lightly up and down his length, from base to tip, long, rapid motions that brought him swiftly closer and closer to release. Already he felt his balls tighten and his cock swell harder, the cum building inside him. Her hands worked faster, a slick fury of motion, driving him to the edge as he stood bent over with his head pressed between his forearms on the stone bench. His breath came in gasps now, and his hips began to thrust forward as the orgasm built-- and then, nothing.

Her hands were gone from him, his cock free in the air beneath him, bouncing between his thighs. A moan of frustration ripped from his chest, and he raised his head to look behind.

Wetlyn was still kneeling there. Her eyes were fixed on his twitching erection. She seemed not to notice him watching her. The twinges of the abandoned orgasm still rippled through his core, as she reached up again, this time grasping his balls, massaging them.

Now she looked to him. "I need a sizable amount. I find that prolonging the experience in this manner increases production." Her eyes slid back to his cock, which now drooled a long, sticky string of clear fluid.

After a moment, her hand shifted back to his shaft, where it was joined by the other. This time, she began hard, pumping him in and out of her fists. She was aggressive, furious.

Atyr's eyes squeezed shut, and let the sensation of the slick palms milking his cock overwhelm him. Heat rolled through and about his body, and in moments he was again on the verge of coming.

She stopped, leaving him throbbing in the cool air once more, and her hand returned to his balls. A whimper leaked its way between his parted lips, and his head dropped to the cold stone. His knees shook violently.

Then she was wrapped around him once more; she was fucking him with her hands. Helpless to resist even had he wanted, he thrust back into her, filled with the hot pressure, the need for release. Yet again, as the waves of pleasure began to fill him, she let go, returning to her gentle squeezing of his balls. She let him wait longer, cooling down, rubbing first one testicle, then the other between her fingers, as though trying to force more cum out of them.

Again and again she brought him to the edge and left him there. Whether it was a dozen times or two dozen or more he couldn't have said. The intervals became shorter and shorter, until at last he was bucking into the air even when her hands were off him, and the slightest touch would bring the orgasm bubbling back up through him.

And then she let him go.

She grabbed the vial swiftly from the bench, and forced it over the tip of his leaking cock, her other hand a blur on his shaft, pounding against his lower stomach with each slick motion. His mind went white as the heat washed through him a final time and the cum shot forth.

Spent, shaking, and unable to think, Atyr collapsed and slumped to the floor, draped against the stone block to which he was locked.

Wetlyn stood primly, and walked away with the vial of his cum. He wasn't sure what she did with it then, and he didn't particularly care. In a moment, she was back at the bench beside him, her voice clear and business like.

"Thank you. It has become increasingly difficult to find suitable sources as I have drifted ever further from human society. And in my age, I require more frequent ministrations.

"I have some clothing that I believe should fit you, to some approximation. What you were wearing was not fit to be worn again. When you are dressed, we will collect your belongings from the cellar, and I will escort you from the tower."

Barely making sense of her words, Atyr nodded his head against the bench, eyes closed. Sleep, he only wanted sleep. He relaxed further against the cold stone, hoping she would give him a while to recover.

But it was not to be.

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CHAPTER EIGHT

Anything Untoward

The stone was warm and rough under his cheek as he lay there naked and spent, drifting in the afterglow. Wetlyn placed the folded clothes on the bench next to his head, then knelt in front of him. A small, curved knife was in her hand.

"I need several drops of blood." She looked at him, requiring an answer.

Atyr shut his eyes again and drew a long breath. He was beyond caring. "Mmm. Yeh, sure."

He felt the blade prickly sharply at the end of his finger. His eyes snapped open to see her collecting a few drops of red in a tiny glass vial. She corked it, then without warning ripped several hairs from his head and stood.

"Ayah! Luckless..."

She glanced down at his frowning face, then walked to her desk.

"What is your name?" she asked, curtly. Atyr coughed in surprise. All that, and he had never told her his name.

"Ah, it's Atyr. Nice to meet you, I guess?" He smiled up at her and raised his brows meaningfully, but she didn't look up to see.

"Family name?"

He wasn't sure why he was surprised that her stony facade hadn't melted away. After all, she had only been kneeling on the floor, fully clothed. He was the one who had been through an eternity of sexual teasing and denial. "Right. It's Bracken."

She wrote something on a tag, presumably his name, and affixed it before placing the vial in a desk drawer. Crossing back to where he was sprawled against the bench in a naked pile of limbs, she picked up the collar and replaced it around his neck. The sliver of wood was between finger and thumb once more. Releasing one of his hands, she indicated he should free the other.

She gestured at the clothes on the bench, and then walked over and sat neatly in her desk chair, eyeing his nude form. He looked at the pile of fabric, expensive weaves in bright colors such as a flirtatious young noble might wear. He hesitated. Coming back to Woodstead dressed like this would raise more than a few questions.

"Ah, if you don't mind, I think it might be better if I wore my old clothes. These are... these are a lot." He twisted his face up in apology.

"Your old clothes have been destroyed." When had she had time to do that? She hadn't left his side for more than half a moment. She blinked mildly. "You would prefer something more subdued."

"If you have anything? I don't expect you have a wardrobe here in my size, after all." He forced a chuckle which she did not reciprocate.

Wetlyn stood in silence for a while, letting her eyes wander coldly across his bare skin, then walked to the single door, and opened it, reaching through for something. She returned with a stack of fabric in more subdued, earthy colors. Atyr began to wonder if perhaps she had servants in the tower. A small knot of embarrassment welled in his throat. He hadn't been at all quiet before, as the cum had been tortuously teased from him.

Forcing the thought away, he looked at the clothes. The weave was still finer than any Atyr had ever worn, but at least he wouldn't look like some bright, exotic bird among crows, back in town. He stepped swiftly into the garments: simple pants, a long shirt and a fitted vest, quite similar to what he'd walked in wearing. They fit a bit loosely, but they would serve.

Brushing out the wrinkles, he offered a small smile. "Thanks. I won't be the talk of the town in these."

Wetlyn looked at him. "You will return tomorrow morning before midday to restore the door. I have the necessary tools and material." When he nodded, she continued. "Follow me." She made for the door, leading him out and into a narrow landing. On a little stone seat built into the wall lay his pack, all neatly filled with his possessions, his bow, and his two daggers. He blinked. They were definitely not alone in the tower.

From the landing, stone stairs curved up to the left, and down to the right. She took them down a single flight to a second landing. The stairs continued lower, and a door lay to either side. She placed her hand on the bar of the larger door, staring straight into his eyes.

He couldn't say exactly what was different about her, except that some subtle detail of her face was harder now. Though she was still the same beautiful, youthful woman who had moments ago had her soft hands wrapped around his cock, Atyr could suddenly see the century-old witch behind her eyes. He drew back, shrinking in on himself. She held the sliver of wood up before his face, bent slightly between fingers and thumb. He flinched as she reached for his neck, but she only undid the collar. When she spoke, her voice was chill and deadly, though it lost none of its empty flatness.

"I live here undisturbed. Do nothing to change that. I will know. Atyr Bracken." She opened the door and pointed. Atyr stepped through and turned to give his farewells, but the door was already shut.

He stood a moment on the threshold, back outside on the spire. The wind blew across him with the scent of dried lichen. Turning to face the rocky landscape, he recalled the terrifying events a few days past. No, the trolls had been just past midday, this day. It was now only late afternoon. He really should have asked Wetlyn about some way to avoid them.

Looking about he realized he was on the opposite side of the tower, and a floor higher than where he had entered. The foundation was built into the slope. Earlier he had entered through what now appeared to have been the back door, into a room half below the rock. A sandy path led away from the front steps, out into the steep, boulder-tumbled slopes of the spire. He strung his bow, checked his blades, and crept away down the slope.

Knowing what lay in wait among those jagged, grey hulks, he moved silently this time, every bit the Brookwood woodsman now. Every bit the Ranger.

He followed the trail, but did not set foot on it, instead weaving silently under and through the chaos of stones, as far back as he could get while keeping track of its route. This path was separate from the one he had ascended that morning, and wound downward in a different direction. He saw no sign of the trolls, or of Pesky. He would have to trust to Wetlyn's confidence in the sprite's abilities.

In a short while, he found himself back at the sheer overhang that ringed the upper part of the spire, though at a different point now. The trail ran along the edge for a ways, before seemingly coming to a dead end. Crouched for a moment, he followed its course with his eyes from among the boulders. He slipped out of his cover, and moved silently across the open ground to the path. A laugh nearly escaped him at what he found.

Stairs! Stone steps, cut into the small cliff, narrow and steep, but straight and well-made. He wouldn't have to squirm through dark, mold-slimed cracks under the rock this time. Happily, he trotted down the stair, then slipped quietly back among the boulder-fall. As he did, three small wisps of Experience came rushing from higher up the spire and found him. Presumably trolls he had evaded? It was sometimes a mystery why precisely he gained Experience, he was beginning to find.

The way soon became less steep, and after a while the jumble of jagged stones became sparser once more, buried now in the green turf of the lower half of the spire. During the easy descent, he had plenty of time to consider how best to approach his coming conversation with Kella. Ultimately, he decided on full honesty. Full honesty minus some of the racier details...

At one point the trail ran between a cluster of tall boulders and through a natural arch made of two giant shards of rock, and there appeared to end on a flat expanse of exposed granite. Atyr walked to the edge and laughed a second time.

The trail he and Pesky had used this morning ran just around the edge of this slab of bedrock, barely half a man's height below. He hopped down and looked behind him. From here, the easy trail he had descended was impossible to see. Someone ascending would have to know it was there to use it. He wondered if Pesky had known.

Turning back to the trail on which he now stood, he got his answer, in the form of Pesky herself.

"Atyr!" She beamed at him. "I didn't know which way you'd take, so I waited here."

His face broke into an uncontrollable grin at the sight of her tiny, translucent form. "Pesky! Wetlyn told me you'd be fine, but..." He realized his throat was closing slightly with emotion. "I'm glad to see you."

She flitted close to him. "I want you to know, that last time I was here there were no trolls." She stared earnestly. "That is the truth."

He shrugged, and quirked his lips. "I figured as much, since you got nabbed yourself. How did you get free?"

"Get free? It was just a troll, dummy." She rolled her eyes at him.

Just a troll. Atyr reflected that he'd barely survived the one that had managed to catch him.

"After I dealt with it," the sprite continued. "I couldn't find you, so I headed to the tower and kept an eye out. I saw you just as you came tearing in through the rocks and kicked in Wetlyn's door." She buzzed a circle around his head. "Bet the old bitch loved that."

"She didn't. I promised to build her a new door tomorrow. Hey Pesky? One question."

"Mmm?"

"Why didn't you choose the trail with stairs?"

The little sprite froze in place, wings fluttering. "Well, look at that sun! We need to get you back to town for your evening date with Kella!" She sped off down the path. Atyr rolled his eyes and followed. Luckless little shit.

The rest of the walk back to town was quiet. Atyr filled Pesky in on the details of his time in Wetlyn's tower. Some of the details. Many of them he kept to himself. If the sprite noticed the gaps in his tale, she didn't let on. And, knowing her proclivity for mockery, that probably meant she hadn't.

The sun was just coming to rest on the treetop ridges beyond Woodstead when they made it back to town. The shimmering light of its final moments radiated outward through banks of clouds colored like fields of brilliant poppies. It was stunning, and Atyr certainly felt stunned. He was exhausted. Several times recently, he had noted that a given day was now certainly the most eventful, unpredictable day of his life. Today was already leaving the rest of the pack behind, and he had yet to talk to Kella.

He trudged into town and turned straight up the knoll to the Birdhouse, Pesky at his shoulder, pestering him with reminders to, above all, impress upon Kella the delicateness of the situation, and to ensure the young healer would take no further actions. He walked wearily up to the front door, open as it often was.

"Mr. Bracken. I must insist that we speak, however briefly."

Atyr halted, sighed, and turned around wearily to find the devil on the wooded path behind him. "Mr. Helliot. Hi. Fine. Briefly."

"I should also like very much to set aside a moment for a lengthier discussion, in which we might, the two of us, examine the multitude of ways in which--"

"Helliot, make it brief."

"Of course, Mr. Bracken, I do apologize. I urge you to remember that, however cynically you may at current view my motivations, our desired outcomes remain congruent with one another's, providing a circumstance which supersedes--"

"That's not true."

"Eh? I do apologize, which part is untrue, Mr. Bracken?"

"I don't believe we want the same outcome."

"Mr. Bracken, I must once more remind you that there is simply no practicable way in which our dear Abarabir--"

"I'm going to find a way."

"Mr. Bracken, while I do so enjoy and admire your dedication and ingenuity I also must heartily..."

Atyr turned and left him there on the trail, ducking inside the Birdhouse. Helliot didn't follow.

Inside, Kella was waiting for him. She smelled strongly of something that reminded Atyr of a rancid batch of woodsman's wine he and a friend had found hidden in the Brookwood in the last summer before their full manhood. Even at that eager age, they hadn't dared taste the caustic brew.

"Atyr, hi! Sorry about the smell. It helps to keep wounds clean, but I fumbled it trying to return it to a high shelf. I... I think my mind's really been... elsewhere this afternoon."

He smiled and shrugged. "Can't imagine why. Look, I'm very sorry about this morning. I didn't plan that out like I should have and... are you ready to leave?"

She nodded swiftly, her smile quirking a bit to one side, almost playfully.

Atyr looked at her. "Uh, do you have a place we could go to be alone? I have a room at Gant's set aside just for me, but I know how that sounds..." He grinned sheepishly.

Surprisingly, her returning grin didn't look sheepish at all. "And just how do you think that sounds, Atyr Bracken?"

In his ear, Pesky repeated Kella's words. "And just how do you think that sounds, Atyr Bracken?" Atyr forced himself not to respond, but his cheeks reddened. He chose to ignore them both.

"We could go to the clearing again, where we were last week."

Kella cocked her head. "Last week?"

"Yeh, by the stream, where you... I mean where I fell in."

"Where I kissed you, you meant to say." She grinned at him, but then her eyebrows drew down quizzically. "Atyr, that was the day before yesterday."

"Fates, was it?" He tried to count back, but it wasn't adding up. "Sorry, its been a lot, the past couple days. It's... there's just been a lot."

Her eyes were sympathetic. "I really got that impression this morning. Anyway, we could go to the clearing but it'll be dark soon, and the midges will be out over the stream. My parents' house is an option, but..." She caught the panicked look on his face, and laughed. "Let's go to Gant's."

"Are you sure? I promise you I'm not trying to be forward, I just don't have anywhere else."

Her eyes sparkled at him. "Take me up to your room at the inn, Atyr Bracken, and woo me with tales of your deeds with the fae."

Atyr couldn't help smiling back. "You seem pretty comfortable with all this."

"Oh, I'm really not. Not at all. But I've had all day to really think about it and I've decided that either you are really haunted by invisible fae spirits, in which case you need all the help you can get. Or, you are pulling a really elaborate ruse to lure me into a room at the inn so you can ravish me." She winked. "You aren't, are you?"

Atyr's face was as red as it had ever been. "Fates Kella, you don't have much concern for modesty, do you?"

She gestured behind her. "I spend my days fixing people's bodies. I know how they work, and how they don't. Modesty doesn't last long. And I've never really had much of it."

Atyr considered that she had seemed to have a bit of a sense of modesty when he'd first met her, but then, that had been under different circumstances. "Alright then. So, to Gant's?"

She reached out a hand, and they left the Birdhouse together. Pesky trailed behind, forgotten. Helliot still stood beside the path, but Atyr ignored his attempts to offer advice. Kella, of course, saw neither of them.

They slipped in quietly through the back door at Gant's having decided it was best if they made it upstairs unnoticed. The inn was busy this evening, loud and boisterous. They made it halfway up the stairs before a man's over-loud voice called from the floor.

"Hey, Kella! Exactly where are you going?"

She froze, then muttered to Atyr. "Just keep on." Following her own advice, she continued upwards.

"Who's the boy?" The voice called again. Atyr searched the floor and found its owner. A stocky man, about his own age or a bit older, with short black hair and a close trimmed beard. The man took a deep swig from his tankard, then thrust it out, indicating Atyr. Several other faces were turning to look now.

"Just Go!" Kella hissed. "I'll smooth it over with him later."

Atyr paused now; he noticed Gant eyeing him distastefully as well. Catching his glance, the small innkeep beckoned them both over. Atyr sighed, and headed down the stairs. Kella protested, but followed him.

Gant never looked pleased, dourness was his normal state of being, but in this moment he seemed as if he was actually trying to look unhappy, with odd results. It was as though he couldn't quite find the muscles that would let his expression darken further. "Kella. What are you doing with the Bracken boy here?"

She opened her mouth to respond, annoyance on her face, but the small man waved her to silence.

"Bracken, why don't you wait outside a moment."

Atyr looked at Kella. She shrugged, then sighed and nodded. He crossed the crowded inn, drawing some sidelong glances, and exited the front door.

Outside, in the deepening gloom, he leaned back against the wall between two windows, settling himself uncomfortably into a foul mood. Pesky settled herself, quite comfortably, on the top of his head. This day, of all the days he'd had, this day was turning out to be a--

"Hey!"

Atyr's head whipped around at the loud voice. It was the stocky, black-haired man. The man stalked unsteadily towards him. Atyr pushed himself off the wall, taking a step back. The bearded man stopped. "Hey, I just came out to talk to you." He put his thick hands up before him, palms out. "Not trying to jump you."

Atyr relaxed slightly, but he didn't come any closer. "Hi. What did you want to talk to me about?"

The man scratched his beard with exaggerated nonchalance, then leaned against the wall as Atyr had been. He looked like a bad actor instructed to improvise the actions of a character behaving 'casually'.

He glanced over at Atyr. "So. You're with Kella, huh?"

Pesky cut in. "See? Everyone but you can tell."

Atyr was silent.

"Pretty good catch, that one. Bet you've been having fun, yeh?"

Heat was building in Atyr's chest. He flexed his fingers and clenched them briefly. "I just met her."

The man forced a laugh. "Oh yeah, just met her, already leading her up to your room." He caught Atyr's eye and pulled a knowing smirk. "Hey, don't think I don't know what she's like. Lot of fun that one. She'll do anything, won't she? Take it anywhere you want, as long and hard as you want it." He mimed grabbing some imaginary part of a woman and thrusting his hips into her, then belched. "I haven't had a chance at her since before she went up to old Bird's place. Bet she's learned a trick or two about bodies up there, huh?"

In his ear, Pesky giggled. "This guy is yucky, but 'she'll do anything' is interesting, isn't it?"

Atyr breathed out hard and loud. "I don't think she'd like to know you were talking like that." The words were meant for both of them.

"Hey, I'm just having fun with you, boy. If you don't want to tell me everything she does to get your balls emptied out, that's your choice."

Atyr took a step forward now. He'd killed two trolls and braved a witch this afternoon; somehow this short, drunk townsman didn't seem as intimidating as he might have a week ago.

"Listen, Kella and I are just friends--" He stumbled, realizing that wasn't necessarily true. "We're... I mean I just met her. That's not why I'm bringing her here, we're just going to talk."

The stocky man scoffed. "Hah, talk. Bet you are. How much talking is she going to do with her mouth stuffed full of your--"

Atyr made a short lunge forward, jutting out his chin. Pesky was sent flying. The man's eyes went wide for a moment and he stumbled off the wall, backing up a step. Atyr saw the wild gaze drop to the two long daggers at his belt.

Recovering quickly, the man smiled again. "Whoa, whoa. Alright, if you don't like talking about it, just say it. No need to come after me."

"Look." Atyr advanced towards him now, eyes narrow, chin set. "I'll say it once more. I just met her. I was in the Birdhouse, the Healing House, and I almost died. Bird said I was going to, but Kella? She cared for me. And here I am. Alright? So I owe her a lot. I owe her my life."

The man's face had softened now, and his mouth formed a silent "O" shape.

Atyr continued. "I don't care what you and Kella got up to, and I don't want to know. But right now, I need to fix something. I need to help Bird with something, and Kella's going to help me. That's it. We're here to talk. You can imagine all you want about it, but that's the truth."

The man was trying to break in now, his expression defensive and earnest, but Atyr rolled over him. "And honestly, if this is how you talk about her, I see why you 'haven't had a chance at her' in over a year. I'm surprised you ever had a chance at all."

A silence followed, during with the man blinked, shook his head, and then, unexpectedly, smiled broadly and extended his hand.

"I'm Tal. Talain Given is my name. I'm Kella's best friend."

Atyr didn't take the hand. "Yeh, real good friend, seems like. You talk about all your friends like that?"

Tal kept his hand extended. "Look, I'm sorry. Got the wrong idea about you, maybe. Thought I'd get you to spout something shitty about her so I could lay you out."

Atyr wavered, uncertain, but he still didn't take the hand.

Tal tried again. "I heard about you. You're the kid they dragged in out of the Brookwood, right? Kella was talking about you when you were in the Birdhouse. She was, a lot. Maybe I got you wrong, alright?" He dropped his hand. "Look, I'm sorry?" He stumbled slightly, catching himself against the wall of the inn.

He looked up at Atyr, rubbing his short beard. "You're really just friends?"

The anger was swiftly fading from Atyr's chest. He opened his mouth, not sure what the true answer was, and not sure if he wanted to give it even he did know. Tal laughed, loudly.

"Hah! Knew it. She--" He burped. "She always did move fast."

"We're... not actually... I guess I'm not sure."

Tal raised his brows dramatically, too far up his forehead. Atyr was again reminded of a bad actor, this time trying for comedy. "How are you not sure?"

Atyr shrugged and chewed his lip, his troll-slayer's confidence deserting him. "Uh, well, I thought we were just friends, more acquaintances really, but..." His cheeks flushed.

"But?"

Atyr looked up and away, not willing to say more.

Tal stared at him for a moment, expressionless, then apparently found something in Atyr's expression, and collapsed in laughter. He actually collapsed, sliding down the wall of the inn to sit on the dirt of the road. It took him a while to collect himself, then he reached up a hand. Atyr took it and hauled the drunkard to his feet. The black-bearded man, still grasping his hand, said again, "Talain Given. Good to meet you."

Atyr looked at him for a moment, then smiled back curtly. "Atyr. I met you too."

Tal squinted, trying to work that out, then burst into laughter again, throwing an arm over Atyr's tense shoulders and dragging the young woodsman back into the inn. As they entered, a thin, grey wisp of Experience drifted out of Tal's back and into Atyr's. He shivered at the sensation.

Inside, Atyr and Tal wove their way over to where Kella stood, alone now at the foot of the stairs. It took some convincing on her part, as well as promises to talk soon, and some exasperated apologies for "Keeping her Brookwood boy a secret from her dear old Tal," before the short man finally hugged them both hard enough to stop their breathing, winking obviously at Atyr, and whispered, loud enough that everyone within two strides could hear. "Just remember Ander, you stick it in, you stick around, y'hear me?" He wandered crookedly off into the crowded floor.

Kella seemed to have recovered some sense of modesty; her face was glowing like hot iron. "I'm so sorry about that. He's really a great guy. We grew up together. But he can be a bear-hound when he thinks I'm in trouble."

Atyr firmly agreed with that description. "Noticed." He raised his brows.

Kella glanced over at the counter, where the old innkeep was casting dark glances at the two of them.

"Gant was worried about me too. He suspects you're up to something 'untoward', as he put it. He says you keep coming up with more coin than he expects you really ought, and he thinks it's suspicious. I told him there was really nothing to worry about, and explained you and I just had some things to talk about in private. Can I be really honest though?" Atyr nodded. "I don't really know much about you. For all I know you really are heading out onto the road and waylaying people for their purses."

"Is that what he thinks I've been up to?" Atyr pulled a wry face. "He hinted at something along those lines the other day when I rented the room."

Kella shrugged. "He is really not a fan of those two huge knives you're suddenly wearing. I admit I was a bit startled as well, Atyr. He really is a good man though. He's just suspicious of everyone." She looked across the room at Gant and gave him a smile and a wave. "Anyway, I convinced him you weren't, or at least set him at ease that you're not going to do anything 'untoward' to me."

Atyr glanced over at Gant as well, then back to Kella.

She blinked slowly at him, dark eyes looking out from under dark lashes. "You're not planning to do anything untoward to me, are you Atyr Bracken?"

Atry swallowed, and opened his mouth, fully intending to say something, if only he could think of something to say, but before he could, she grabbed his hand and pulled him up the stairs.

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CHAPTER NINE

Two Types of Tension

Kella shut the door to the little room firmly and leaned her back against it, slumping into the wood and laughing. "Well. Just how we planned it, sneaking quietly in the back!"

Atyr sent a tense little smile her way. She might be comfortable with the folk of Woodstead through long familiarity, and so not worry about their little dramas, but as a visitor, raising anything close to suspicion put him on edge.

She threw herself dramatically across the bed now, limbs and hair sprawling attractively on the rough blanket. "Oh, fae woodsman, what tales of deadly import weigh so heavily upon you that you simply must grace my ears with their fateful words?" Her voice took on the quality of a poet, only slightly belied by a stifled giggle.

Atyr looked at her curiously in the dark of the room, the moon silvering the strands of her long hair. He opened his mouth to speak, but then realized Pesky hadn't followed them in. Pleasant though the solitude was, she should probably be here for this. He shut his mouth again, and went to the door to check. An irate sprite buzzed in so fiercely through the crack of the opening door that he felt the harsh breeze of her passing on his face. He shut the door, and started again.

"I've thought about this all day." He paused, and Kella broke in.

"I'm sure you have." She was suppressing a knowing smirk. Her shift in demeanor from this morning was starting to unsettle Atyr. What did she know that he didn't, that she could find such delight in the situation?

"Kella... I spent a long time trying to figure out how to approach this, and I think..." He trailed off again.

She sat up on the bed, and her face melted into an expression of gentle concern. "Atyr Bracken. Tell me true. Have you never done this before?"

"'Done this before?' What is 'this'? Explaining everything? Of course not! I'm just finding out about all of this. I swear I didn't know anything about any of it until our walk the other day."

She stood then and stepped close to him, taking his hands. She was barely apart from him. Her hair and clothes still reeked of that fouled-wine smell, but it hit him now with the intoxication real wine brings. He almost forgot why they were there. She stepped back, pulling him gently with her towards the bed. "Just follow." Her smile was soft and caring. "I can show you."

Atyr took two steps with her, his head a mess of confusion and desire. He felt himself stiffening swiftly. He halted. Kella looked down at the protrusion, then smiled up at him. "Don't be nervous. You'll know what to do."

He squeezed his eyes and jaw, forcing himself to remember why he was in this moonlit room with this dark, beautiful woman. He pulled back, freeing his hands and turning away.

"Kella, this is really important. It's... Bird's life could be in danger." He looked back at her. Her mouth was still smiling, but her eyes weren't. "And also your soul, I think."

She dropped onto the bed again, snorting. "Look, you have fully won me over. You don't need to pull this whole "fae" thing anymore. Once was endearing, twice is getting kind of weird."

Atyr stood stunned. Her face, looking at him, had lost its gentleness. She was annoyed. "Kella, is that what you think? I'm just making something up to get you alone with me? Why would I need to do that? Want to do that?"

She shrugged. "Men have tried stranger. I don't really know." She squinted at him in the moonlight. "You really want me to believe that Bird's "fae man" is real, and you met him, and it's somehow really important that you get me alone in a room in the inn to talk about it?"

He breathed out in disbelief, and looked around him at the rough beams and posts of the room. "All that to get you here? That doesn't even make sense. This morning you were scared, worried, as I am. Now..." He stopped, the obvious question left hanging in the silence.

"Sure, this morning you really spooked me. You did. You were really acting strangely." She threw up her hands. "But I had all day to think about it, and... I mean, it's really pretty obvious what you were up to, trying to lure me in me with stories of mystery and danger."

Pesky, flitting over from the window where she'd been sitting, hovered behind Kella's head. "You're doing great. Perfect explanation so far, dummy."

Atyr didn't know what to say. He just stood, hands limply beside him. Then he remembered.

"What about the door?"

Kella looked blankly up at him, and glanced at the door to the room. "The door? What about the door?"

"When it slammed and wouldn't open. What about that?"

Pesky shook her head. Kella shook her head.

Kella stood up, beginning to look annoyed. "I don't know what you're talking about. Look, I think this was a mistake, maybe we can talk tomorrow, but I shou--"

"This morning." Atyr cut in sharply. "This morning, you were about to go get Bird to talk to her. You opened the door, and it slammed itself shut. You tried again and it wouldn't budge. You don't remember that?"

Dark eyes narrowed slightly, full lips parted, and her soft brows drew in. She looked suddenly uncertain, almost frightened. "I... I suppose I forgot about that, somehow. It was all so..." She shook her head, just a brief movement. "I think maybe you kicked it shut, and held it with your foot?" She blinked, looking at the floor.

"No, Kella, I wasn't anywhere near it."

Pesky tapped him on the ear. "She won't remember it, not really. It's how we are."

Kella was wavering now, fear, anger, and confusion all mixing in her expression. At least he wouldn't have to worry about her distracting him with lustful advances anymore. Luck in luckless times.

"Kella, will you just let me tell you the story? Please. You don't have to believe what I say, but at least trust that I mean it. Please?"

There was a long silence. Even Pesky seemed unwilling to break it. Eventually Atyr did.

"Hey, and the other thing, it wouldn't be my first time, alright? Just to be clear." His cheeks reddened at his own boldness. The young healer blinked, sighed, and let out a short breath that might have been intended as a laugh. She looked him in the eye.

"Alright, Atyr Bracken." She sat back down on the bed. "I'll listen."

He breathed a long, quiet sigh as the tension faded slowly from him. Pesky hovered beside her and grinned impishly at Atyr. "Fine, but hear me out, she'd probably still let you fuck her first." He choked.

---

He began at the beginning, with hearing Pesky's voice, which he described as merely 'distracting in a fae way,' and then took her on through his feverish trip to town. His experiences with Elatla in the pool were summed up as 'then a kelpie grabbed me and dragged me under.' Pesky protested every instance of sanitation and expurgation, but he willed himself to ignore her entirely. When he got to the part where he woke up in the Birdhouse, Kella spoke for the first time.

"That's why you woke up? Why you healed so quickly? It was fae magic?"

"As I understand it, yeh. I heal fast now. Overnight, pretty much."

Kella looked down. "I suppose our efforts really didn't matter at all then?"

"No," Atyr protested, "no, Pesky didn't come to me until the third day I was there. You two must have been what kept me alive."

She nodded. "I suppose. I'm not saying I believe it, mind you. Just to be clear."

"Fair. Anyway, I got a good test of the healing right after I left town."

He took her through a brief overview of his encounter with the wolf. It wasn't really necessary to the story, but he couldn't resist telling the tale. Kella, of course, asked to see where he'd been mauled, but in the silver light of the moon, there was nothing visible. She raised her brows skeptically at him.

He moved on swiftly. "Anyway, it was when I got back to town that things really got weird."

He had just started in describing his introduction to Helliot, where the devil had interrupted the two of them as they left the Birdhouse, when Kella cut in again.

"Alright, hang on. So you can really see all these fae, but no one else can? I didn't notice him popping up right in front of us?"

"Well first off, he's not fae. He's a fiend, which is different. I think it's basically... bad fae?" He raised a brow at Pesky, questioningly.

She made a disgusted face and wagged her head back and forth, but eventually she threw up her tiny arms and shrugged, accepting his description.

"But yes," he said, "basically I think that's about right. I can see them now because I'm what I guess is called 'fae-marked.'"

"Fae-touched." Pesky interjected.

"This is starting to sound like a whole bunch of ways to make yourself seem mysterious and special." Kella looked at him flatly. "Rather than just some boy out of the Brookwood."

Atyr's stomach took a dive into something hot and unpleasant, but he kept his face as unaffected as possible. "I understand that. Just bear with me a little longer. I promise I'm not playing at anything just to get you to..." He looked away. "You know."

She took a deep breath. "Yeah, fine. I mean, it's really obvious you're not just trying to get me in bed since... I mean I was there, wasn't I? I just don't think I really believe any of this." Dark eyes caught his own.

"Fair. Let me tell you just a little more of the story? It's important."

Slowly, she nodded her assent.

"Thanks. So anyway, this devil stopped me as you and I were headed out on our walk, but you couldn't see him because you're not fae-touched. Then he basically stopped time, so we could talk abou--"

"Look, Atyr, I'm sorry to keep interrupting, but you're telling me a devil stopped the world, the entire world, just to talk to you, right in front of me? It's not even a believable story, and honestly--"

"Kella. If I wanted to make up a story to impress you, I promise I could come up with something better than this. And technically, he didn't stop time, he... well I don't really understand it, but I guess he borrowed some of my time from the end of my life to talk to me." He looked at the frown on her face. "It's not important. What's important is I agreed to meet with him that night, and that's when he told me about everything to do with Bird."

Kella held up a hand, and stood up off the bed. "You could see the fairie before you were fae-touched."

Atyr paused. "Sprite. But yeh, I could. Apparently that's because I "invited" her. Honestly, I don't even know what that means."

"You could see the kelpie too. You "invited" her as well, I suppose?" She crossed her arms now. "This story of yours doesn't really hang together."

"I know this all sounds crazy. As I understand it, bleeding into the pool was considered an invitation for the kelpie. None of that is important though, what's important is what Helliot--"

"I want to see her."

"... What?"

"I want to see her." Her voice was firm. Her face was set. "You were able to "invite" this faerie--"

"Sprite."

"Sure. You invited this Sprite. She's with you, here in town?"

"I am!" said Pesky brightly.

Atyr nodded slowly. "She is, yes. But, I don't even know how I invited her, it just kind of happened."

"Well, if you did it by accident, it must be really simple, right? Go get her."

"Kella, she's--"

"Go get her. I want to see her. I won't listen to one more luckless word of your completely nonsensical tale if you don't go fetch her right now and make her reveal herself to me." She was glaring, eyes drilling deep into his own. "I mean it, I'll leave right now and I'm not sure if you'll see me again, Atyr Bracken."

"Kella, she's right here. She's in the room."

Her expression switched briefly to one of surprise, and her eyes scanned swiftly around the bare walls, but then she settled the look of grim determination back on her face. "Right then, sprite. Show yourself to me!"

Atyr looked at Pesky helplessly. The Sprite laughed and shook her head at him. "Oh, you are not going to like this. But I am!"

He looked back to Kella. "Listen, this is going to be weird, but I'm going to have to talk to her, alright? Just... you won't hear her."

A long, slow blink answered him. "Of course I won't." She smiled tightly.

Atyr chewed hard on his lower lip, teeth nearly breaking the skin. "Aaaaalright. Pesky. How does someone invite you? You've never given me a straight answer."

Kella snorted in derision and turned away, looking out the single window at the darkened road outside.

Pesky flew in close, glee written across her tiny features. "You're reaaaaally going to be unhappy, my favorite little dummy. You reaaaally are."

"Pesky, please, just tell me."

"Atyr, you have about a moment and an instant before I head out this door." Kella's back was still to him.

His voice was desperate now. "Pesky! This is important to you too, I can tell! Please."

The sprite flew in close, placing both palms on the tip of his nose. She leaned in, and whispered, "Orgasms."

Atyr closed his eyes. He didn't open them. His jaw worked back and forth, teeth grinding. "Right. Of course. Exactly how does that work?" He glanced worriedly over at Kella. She had turned partway around and was watching him now, distrust lurking on her shadowed face.

"It's easy, dummy. I just have to watch you come." She giggled and did a little backflip in the air. "You should probably tell her soon, she looks ready to run."

"And when would you have seen me..." He trailed off, as through his mind ran several dozen times she could have seen him, as he enjoyed himself, secure in the remote solitude of his forest clearing.

Pesky said nothing. There was no need. She batted minuscule lids over her white eyes.

"Fates leave you if you are deceiving me..."

"I'm not."

"That's the truth?"

A swift nod. "It's the truth."

Atyr took a long, deep breath. He stood. He let the breath out. "Kella."

She looked at him, expression blank.

"Kella, the only way to see her is... look I really don't want to say this. I promise this is real. It's the only way. I promise what I'm going to say isn't a ploy."

"Atyr Bracken. If you say that I have to fuck you to see your luckless little faerie, I will leave this room."

"No! No. It doesn't have to be..." He glanced at the sprite. She shook her head. "No, that's not it, but..."

"But what? I'm waiting Atyr."

"But..." His throat closed and his cheeks burned. "But she does have to watch you... erm... have an orgasm."

The silence that followed felt longer than the entirety of the day that had preceded it, from the morning with Helliot and the glass, through the trolls, the witch, and the walk back to town.

He looked imploringly at Pesky. "Isn't there some way... can't you do something to show her you're here?"

Kella began to head to the door once more. Panic welled in Atyr's chest, and he acted. Thought played no role in it, he just moved, drawing his belt knife and slashing it deep across his wrist. He snarled against the pain and held it out towards her, blood coming fast.

"Kella! Look!"

She turned slowly, then gasped and moved instinctually forwards, hands reaching for his arm. But then she caught herself. "What are you... what fae-cursed..." Fear was on her face once more.

"Please, Kella. Just watch. Please."

She was backing away from him in the room now, still moving towards the door. He took his sleeve and wiped the blood away, revealing the deep wound, no longer bleeding.

"Kella." His voice was quiet now. "Wait just one moment. Just one moment. Watch."

She had frozen in place. He should still be bleeding, he should be bleeding a lot, and he knew she knew it. The moment passed and he held out his arm. She hesitated, but then walked haltingly over to him. She looked down. The wound was already knit over; new, tender, red skin having formed to seal the cut against the outside world. Her eyes were wide as she looked up into his face.

"Kella. Believe me."

A second silence fell, the two young people stood facing one another, the wounded arm held up between them, with the dim, slanting beams of moonlight casting their shadows like ink on the bed beside them. Kella touched the wound with two fingers, still staring up at him.

"I still want to see her," she said, glancing quickly away.

A tiny mote of experience sped, glowing, from her eyes and snuggled its way warmly into Atyr's chest. He knew he had convinced her.

===========================

===========================

CHAPTER TEN

Kella's Invitations

Kella's face regained none of the mirth and playfulness it had held when she had entered the room, but Atyr hoped he could see a softening of the hard-set features. She took a step back from where she stood, putting two strides between them.

"And you've done this as well? She's really watched you? Watched you pleasure yourself, that is?"

Pesky couldn't resist adding commentary. "Oh, so many times. You wouldn't believe how often young men get up to it."

Atyr mouthed some words, voicelessly, glancing away at anything else he could find in the dark, as though the exposed timber frame of the room might answer the question and spare him the embarrassment. Kella snorted and rolled her eyes.

"Answer me this then. How did you know how to find her?"

He squeezed one eye shut and squinted at her through the other, squirming. "I... didn't. Accident."

Her face was still for a moment, then something almost like a smile twisted across it. "You know, if you had wanted to make this convincing, you really should have started with the part where a faerie caught you jerking off, rather than your escape from a kelpie, and your battle with a wolf, and a time-stopping devil-man that only you can see. Unless I thought you were trying to humiliate yourself, it would really have been more believable."

Atyr didn't have a response, he just lifted his hands helplessly. "Sorry?"

"Well, me too, I think. Sorry that is. I'm still not really sure I believe you about everything though."

"I still haven't told you everything. We haven't gotten to the important part yet, with Bird. Can I tell you about my talks with Helliot now?" He glanced at her and looked swiftly away. "Erm, unless you really want to... see Pesky first...?"

He couldn't force himself to look at her, but fortunately she seemed unwilling to meet his eyes as well. They both stood in the dark a moment longer, looking at everything in the room except for each other. There was a bed, a small table with a lamp, and a window: not much to hold the attention. Pesky had returned to the window, where she hopped about from pane to pane, evidently bored by the awkward conversation.

Atyr tried to think of anything to change the topic. "We never even struck a light, huh?"

Kella gave him an odd, strained look. "Well, I didn't really think we were going to need it..."

Right. She hadn't realized he was actually going to try to convince her that all his babble from that morning was more than a clumsy attempt to make himself look important and mysterious. She thought they were coming here to fuck. He swallowed, willing the slow, disobedient swelling between his legs to subside. He sat on the bed to hide it.

Kella spoke again. "I do." She was still examining the shadows in the empty corner of the room as though they were somehow fascinating or relevant. "I do really want to see her. Just so I can know you're really telling the truth."

Even in the moon-softened gloom of the room he could see the flush to her cheeks. He risked an attempt at levity.

"Hey, thought you lost what little modesty you had during your time at the Birdhouse?" He forced a small rasp that had begun its life as a laugh. "Suddenly embarrassed?"

When she didn't answer or react, he changed tack. "Sorry, just trying to... look, maybe I should leave already, so you can think about what you want to do without me here making everything uncomfortable."

Now her face turned towards him, and the moonlight caught against the edge of her cheek, breaking and picking out just the tip of her nose, and the curve of her lips. A half smile was on them.

"I didn't say I wanted you to leave, Atyr Bracken. Why ever you came here tonight, I know why I did."

His eyes widened, and his breath caught in his throat. She wanted him to stay? He wanted that. Every part of him wanted that as much as he could remember ever having wanted. Certain parts of him especially seemed to want it. His voice squeaked dismayingly as he responded.

"Kella, I think... Look, everything in me... I think I should wait outside. It feels like I've trapped you in this and I don't want it to. I'll wait outside."

Pesky had fluttered back over, now that, from her perspective, things were getting interesting again. "Hey dummy, do you have to be a lump about everything?"

The young woman took a step closer to where he sat on the bed. "Do I have to be alone? When I do it?" Another step. Another, and she stood right between his knees. Even sitting he couldn't hide his arousal.

"No, no she very much does not!" Pesky was zipping around, obviously delighted.

Kella knelt on the floor in front of him, hands on her knees. She looked up at his wide-eyed expression, then at the straining bulge in front of her. "Maybe I'm nervous to be alone with the fae..." She grinned.

"Um, are you? Nervous?" His voice was several steps higher than he would have liked.

Her grin widened. "I don't think I am." She put her hands on his knees now, and began, slowly, to run them up his thighs.

His mouth opened and his head fell back, gasping at her touch, but he swallowed and willed himself to a state of composure. Pushing himself back from her, he slid off the other side of the bed. "Kella, if you believe me about anything I say tonight, believe me about this. I want to stay. I want that as much as anything I've ever wanted. More! More. But not like this, not with her here."

He indicated where Pesky hovered, nothing but a blank space to Kella. "Not with this weird requirement, with you pressured."

"I don't feel pressured, Atyr. Not now." She still knelt beside the bed. Her eyes were earnest. And hungry. She looked up at the ceiling, then back to his face. "But I understand."

He nodded. "Thank you." A tiny smile broke the tension of his face. "This may be the hardest thing I've ever done." He turned and headed for the door.

"Atyr?" Her voice was quiet. "It's in here now?"

He nodded again, just once.

She glanced about the dark room for a moment. "Alright."

Meeting her eyes once more, he wrenched control of his limbs from the will of his aching body and opened the door. "I'll be right outside."

Atyr slumped down on the rough boards in the narrow hallway, leaning back against the door. The part of him that was respectful, caring, genteel, and restrained did its best not to listen for any sounds from the room behind him. That part of him was small, and easily overpowered in this moment.

He listened raptly.

Moments of quiet followed his departure, only marred by the muffled sounds of conversation and laughter from the floor below. A man was singing a song, but the words were obscured by the floor, and the melody was... well the singer seemed to have had a bit more ale than perhaps was recommended.

Then there came quietly through the wood of the door at his back a squeak of a board. There was motion in the room, and the sound of thick fabric hitting the floor. The pressure grew against the laces of his pants, and he shifted uncomfortably. The bedframe creaked once in the room, and he froze, trying and failing not to listen.

Then for a while, more silence.

Hearing only the muted merrymaking from below, Atyr's head began to drift, first to one side, then to his chest. He hauled it back up, and it nodded slowly over to the other shoulder. He blinked, and shook himself alert once more.

Another voice was singing now, either a man with a high tenor or a low, chesty woman. He couldn't tell. The melody was simple and clear, not one he'd heard, but beautiful. The room below him stilled, listening. Each note fell onto him like drops of warm honey, slow-moving rivulets of amber flowing down over his skin and collecting about his feet into a vast pool of smooth golden waves that pulled gently at him and drew him softly under into the warm comfort of sleep.

His eyes slid open in the gloom of the bare hall. The song was over, and downstairs the murmur of the cheerful crowd had risen up once more. His skull still pulsed with the grey pressure of exhaustion denied, and for a moment he couldn't remember why he was here, asleep outside the door of his own room. Kella. A pulse of excitement shot, shocking and hot, from his neck down to his hips, urging his heart faster, and driving the sleep away.

A noise was coming through the thin door. Creaking, quiet and rhythmic. The bed? He stopped breathing, helpless to do anything but listen. Kella's soft voice came too, a short, wordless sound like a breath half vocalized. Blood thrummed through him, thumping in his ears and filling his cock. The creak of the bed was getting louder, and increasing in speed. Another sound, a soft moan, high and sensual and captivating. He could her her breathing now, and he remembered his own, letting free a long-held chestful.

His mind spun, trying not to imagine what she might be doing. He tried not to wonder if she was fully naked, or if she had merely hitched her clothes aside. He forced himself not to consider how she lay, on her back, side, stomach? Or did she kneel, as she might were she astride him? He didn't consider it. He turned his mind aside, not curious if she used one hand or two, if her fingers were inside her, if she touched herself elsewhere... None of it, he thought about none of it.

There was a shifting, rustling sound now, as of fabric moving, and it joined the creaking, and the moaning, more frequent now, and more audible, all culminating together in a single moment of activity, a hurried medley of quiet noises, all tied together by a long, soft whine.

Then a short moment of quiet.

Then a half-choked shriek, followed by the flute-like sounds of Pesky's voice. A pause, and Kella's clear tones responded, soft. They'd met then. Atyr tried to ignore the tightness in his balls and the erection like hard-oak against his pants. He swallowed, stilling his breathing.

They were talking now, too low for him to make out the words. Pesky's chiming bell of a voice alternated back and forth with Kella's murmurs. Kella giggled. Pesky said something else. More giggles, and something that sounded like a question. Pesky's voice held forth at length then, with only occasional interjections from Kella. Yet more giggles. A full-throated laugh, quickly stifled. Both voices were getting louder now, and Atyr began to pick out words here and there, his name prominent among them. He began to wonder if he should knock and ask to come back in. The merry conversation continued inside.

"What are you doing, Bracken?"

Atyr snapped his head up, cracking it hard off the door behind him. Gant was at the end of the hall, looking more displeased than usual. He walked crookedly over, looking down at the younger man with suspicious eyes.

"Kella's in there?" he demanded.

Atyr nodded, and Gant reached over his head, making to open the door.

"Wait!"

Gant stopped.

"Wait," said Atyr again, climbing to his feet. "Um... she's changing. Clothes, that is." Atyr prayed his arousal was fading enough to pass unnoticed.

The wizened old innkeep regarded him sourly. "Changing, is she? Don't recall her bringing any clothings with her."

Atyr glanced at the door. The giggling and chatting had stopped, and he could hear the sounds of hurried movement from within. "Kella?" he called through the wood. "Are you almost done changing?"

There was another brief giggle, followed by a shaky, "Almost! One moment!"

Gant backed up from the door. "Ye've been mighty odd since you came to Woodstead. Bracken's boy or not, I've more than half a mind to hand yer coin back and put ye out my door. If anything untoward--"

The door swung wide. "Sorry, took me half a moment! Just getting changed!" Both men looked at her, still in the same reeking healer's robes she'd entered in. She followed their gaze, then caught Atyr's eye meaningfully. "The clothes you lent me didn't really fit right at all, so I had to get back into these ones." She let herself drift casually closer to Gant. "Sorry, guess we'll all just have to deal with the smell!"

The innkeep flared his nostrils, taking a step back. "Aye, I noticed the smell down on the floor. One of Bird's mixtures is it?"

"Yes, it helps to clean wounds. I dumped it over myself today. Clumsy of me!" She grinned awkwardly.

Gant took another step back, old eyes surveying the two of them. Pesky floated out and drifted between their heads, eager to witness whatever chaos was occurring.

"What young people do in the beds of my inn makes no nevermind to me. Nor should it." He set his chin firmly. "But I don't know what the two of ye are up to that he ends up in the hall so ye can change yer clothes. Doesn't follow, if you'll forgive me saying it. Kella, I want ye to tell me one time more that he's not a bother to ye."

Kella shook her head grinning, and took a step towards Atyr now. Gant shifted his gaze to the younger man. "And I want both of ye to tell me what ye're doing in my inn, assuming it don't rest on what it'd be improper for me to know about, of course."

At the same time, Atyr and Kella spoke.

"It's something for Bird," he said.

"We're writing a poem!" she said.

They both looked at each other. Kella continued first. "It's a poem for Bird, I mean. Atyr really wanted to thank her, but of course we really can't accept his coin at the Healing House, so I suggested he write her a poem, but he's really not much for words, so I offered to help him..."

Now Atyr and Gant both stared at her. Atyr ran furiously through several possible excuses and explanations, but Gant spoke before he could.

"Well. A poem is it? I suppose that'd hold together." Sunken eyes scanned Atyr's face. Atyr tried to look as poetic as he could. "Alright then. Ye can read it out for the guests tomorrow eve, Bracken. Give it a trial before you read it for Bird. A rehearsal." The closest thing to a smile Atyr had ever seen on the old man's face worked its way onto his features. It was wicked.

Gant turned to go, then looked back over his thin, bent shoulder at the pair. "Again, what you do in my rooms is no business of mine, so long as it isn't nothing untoward." He nodded grimly at them, and walked his crooked way along the hall, and back downstairs to the main floor.

As his grey head disappeared down the steps, Atyr looked incredulously at his rosy cheeked, fixedly-smiling companion.

"A poem, Kella? A poem?"

She shrugged at him. "It'll be fine. Really! I'll write it for you tonight."

"But I have to read it," he hissed back.

"Atyr." She smiled, lips twitching. "It'll be fine!"

Pesky giggled maniacally.

Once more in the room, all three of them settled on the bed, Atyr and Kella cross-legged, facing each other, the sprite flitting around and hopping between them. Kella didn't seem embarrassed at all by what had just happened, either in the bed or the hallway, so Atyr did his best to act similarly matter of fact.

"Atyr." Kella's voice tinkled with merriment. "Atyr Bracken. You seem to have left several, or I should say many, many details out of your story." He felt the deep, hot pressure of embarrassment rush into him. Just what all had Pesky told her?

"Pesky's voice just made you feel a bit odd, a bit fae, did it? No other sensations? And that kelpie, she just happened to catch you unawares in the water, nothing else happened there?" Her brows were lifted high on her forehead, and a giggle vibrated inside every word. "And the pants! Why did I hear nothing of your pants? They really seem to have played an important part in the story!"

Atyr folded himself forward burying his face in his arms on the bed. His voice came muffled. "Can we just move on to what Helliot told me? Please?"

Kella laughed once more. "If you admit that you are really the only one here who is pointless restrained by the shackles of modesty, then yes, we can move on."

Face still hidden, he answered. "Fine. Happy to confess."

Pesky giggled, zooming around the pair. "Oh, I do think I'm going to like her, I do, I do!"

Atyr took a moment to recover his composure, and then began where he had left off. Pesky was able to remain mostly silent as he skimmed through his questions with Helliot, and explained about the devil's stymied agreement with Bird. Kella stopped him there. As he had spoken, her face had lost its mirth and taken on an increasingly concerned countenance.

"Atyr, I want to make sure I really understand all this. Because of your agreement with this devil, now anything you do will mean that one of those three things comes to pass?"

"I.. think so, basically, yeh. Unless there's some fourth option no one has thought of yet?" He looked at Pesky.

The little sprite shrugged. "I suppose. That's a little dramatic. More like, one of those things will happen, at some point, and when it does, something this dummy did will have had a hand in it." She flew up and tagged the ceiling, then came back down to sit on Atyr's head. "But pretty much, yes."

Kella, closed her eyes and turned her head away for a moment. "Right. So to keep Bird alive, we have to--"

"How much longer does she really have either way?"

"Pesky!" Atyr snapped at her. "Fates, can't you be halfway decent for one evening?"

"Not really, no." She fluttered her wings on his head, then drooped slightly. "But I'll try."

Kella spoke again. "No, she's right, Bird is in her last summers. Healers aren't squeamish about that; we can't be. But I still really don't want to shorten what time she has left!" She held up her hands, demanding their attention. "So, to keep her around, the first option is for them just to talk, which they can't do, right?"

"Right." Pesky sounded perfectly cheery about it.

Atyr wasn't sure though. "Actually, I'm trying to figure out a way to do that, this afternoon we went up to--"

"Atyr, really sorry, I really don't want to cut you off, but I want this all really straight in my head before you dump any more on me." Kella smiled apologetically. "So the other option is for Bird to pass this curse on to me, right?"

"It's not a curse." Pesky cut in. "You'd just be like Atyr. Fae-touched."

"Except with a devil, Pesky." Atyr looked at the sprite, frowning.

"Well yes, technically she'd be fiend-touched, but nobody says it like that."

Atyr's expression darkened. "I feel like that part is pretty important, isn't it?"

Pesky started to reply, but Kella spoke over her. "Wait, so what, I would just heal overnight like you, and get some sort of weird abilities, that's all that would happen? That actually sounds really good?" She looked back and forth between them. "Isn't that really the easiest way to do this, just have Bird pass the agreement to me?"

He shook his head. "He's a devil, he's a prince of devils, Kella." He looked straight into her eyes. "This morning, right before I talked to you, he tried to get me to drive a splinter of glass into my eye."

"That was just an explanation, dummy, and you know it."

"He's still a devil, Pesky."

"And Elatla is a fae who almost ate you."

"Are you implying there are good devils? Honest question, I don't really know."

"I'm not. There aren't. But that example wasn't--"

"Hey, excuse me?" Kella broke up their bickering. "Atyr, can you tell me exactly what Helliot said about passing her stake in the agreement on to me?"

Atyr thought about it. "He said basically you would pick up right where she left off. That's why he wants it to be you, because he needs a healer for his daughter."

Her face was thoughtful. "Did he say it had to be me? Or just that he wanted it to be me?"

"Ummm..." Atyr tried to remember. Helliot had certainly implied heavily that Kella should be the one to whom Bird passed the agreement, but had he ever specified that it was a requirement? For that matter, had he actually ever named Kella before this morning? "I'm not sure. I know he wants it to be you, but I don't think he actually ever specified that it had to be."

"If it wasn't me, what would happen?"

Atyr's brows drew down. "I'm not sure. If we managed to cajole some poor person into becoming tied to him and going on his quest to rescue his daughter?" He looked at Pesky.

The sprite's reply was swift, certain. "Helliot wouldn't like it, that's for sure. But it would work, I'm fairly certain."

Kella looked up at the ceiling. She looked down at her hands, turning them over and around. Then she stood, walked to the small table, and fiddled around for few moments striking a light to the lamp. She returned and took her place on the bed once more. She stared into Atyr's eyes, the determined concentration on her face lit now by the uneven yellow glow of the flame.

"Here's why you're wrong, Atyr Bracken. Listen. If I've made a mistake, stop me." She looked at him, questioning.

"Right."

"There are really two agreements here. The second, is an agreement about going on the quest, and what Bird wants in return. Or would have wanted I suppose. The first agreement has a few parts. First, Bird summons Helliot. Second, he decides to show up. Third, she was supposed to ask for something, in this case magic, but she never did, right? Because Helliot interrupted her with his own offer?"

Atyr nodded. Pesky turned slowly in the air to stare at him. Kella continued.

"After bird would have made her request, Helliot would have given her the price, the quest, in this case, which would have been the second agreement, and they would have negotiated the terms for that. Correct so far?"

Atyr nodded, confused. Pesky dropped out of the air dramatically, sprawling on the bed, murmuring to herself, "Dummy, dummy, dummy. Dummy..."

Kella grinned grimly. "So, if Bird hands this over to me, I'm picking up right where she left off. I have all the options she would have, right?"

Oh. Oh, that's where she was going with this. Atyr nodded again, then shook his head at himself. "Right. Alright, I understand now, if--"

Kella cut in over him, her voice growing more animated. "If Bird could just say no to the whole thing right now and send him back, then so could I! This is so easy!"

Atyr laughed, still shaking his head. "He spun me around in so many circles when we were talking, I never realized he hadn't actually said option three was for you to go on his quest! This is perfect! We can just talk to Bird in the morning, and have this all settled."

Kella grinned at him. Pesky stood, and then fluttered slowly in between their glowing faces, dusty white against the lamplight.

"And here's why you're both wrong."

The young couple stopped laughing, but their faces were still shone victorious.

"Kella, you are very much not a dummy." Pesky turned to her now. "So let me ask you something. Imagine this for me."

Kella shrugged, smiling.

"Imagine it's tomorrow morning. All three of us head to the Birdhouse. We're going to explain everything to Bird. She is shocked at first, but recognizes what you have to do. She passes her stake to you. You walk outside and find Helliot. He is adamant that he will only make the agreement in private, so you return alone that evening. Following?"

Kella nodded. Atyr looked on silently, his gaze drifting from healer to fae and back.

Pesky wove her story further. "Helliot explains the situation to you. He explains what he offered Bird. The power. The magic. The knowledge and understanding. He offers you the fae-touch, and in return you need only help him free his daughter." The sprite paused here, floating closer to the young woman's face. "And then you say 'no, thank you' and you return to your life as a mundane healer and grow old and die in the remote town of Woodstead. Right? That's what you do, isn't it?"

Now Atyr understood, and he looked at his palms in silence, waiting for Kella's answer. It was a long time coming.

"No. Really, if I'm being honest, I'm not sure I say that to him."

Pesky dropped onto the bed between them and lay back, arms crossed behind her head. "Helliot is older than anything you know of. He has been making deals that entire time. He's good at it. There is an outcome in this deal that he wants most, yes, but there is no possible outcome he will be unhappy with. And he knows the only likely outcome is the one he most wishes for."

The lamp burned on. The moon had passed out of view and its soft glow no longer split into beams of silver white through the window. In the room a long silence passed. Then Atyr spoke.

"Pesky and I went to see a witch today. In the old tower. She has a concoction that Bird could drink that would allow her to see Helliot, but not hear him. She said she would do some research and see if there's some way to figure out the hearing part of it. But it's hopeful, at least?" He looked at Kella, who was quiet, and Pesky, who glowered, but was also quiet.

"Well, I have to go back tomorrow to fix her door anyway... It's a long story. I broke it. There were trolls..." Kella raised her eyebrows at that. "Anyway, when I'm there, I'll see if she's made any progress."

Kella was still unconvinced. "Is there some reason other than 'devils are bad' that I really can't just accept his offer? I'm happy to help him get his daughter back, and then this would really be all fixed."

Pesky answered her. "Sure. You can. Go ahead. But don't think this is some ten day, out-and-back trip with no consequences. If you agree to this, you're going to be working towards her release for a long time. And you'll be bound to a fiend for the rest of your life. That changes people."

They talked a bit more after that, but nothing else productive was said, and they decided that the best course was just to give Wetlyn time to work, and hope for an avenue there. In the meantime, they all agreed to say nothing to Bird, or to Helliot. Late in the evening, Kella left to go home, refusing Atyr's offer to walk her, and telling him that, in her professional opinion, it was a medical necessity that he get sleep immediately.

It turned out she was right. He was unconscious, still fully clothed where he sat on the bed, before she had made it out of the lodging house.

========================

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

On Rusted Road

Atyr woke the next morning to a cold drizzle against the pane of the window, and thought again of his weather cloak, sitting useless two days' journey away. The gloom covering the sky hid the sun and the time from him, but his stomach reminded him that, no matter what time it was, it was well past time to eat. Had he eaten yesterday at all? He didn't think so. Certainly not breakfast; he had gone straight to the Birdhouse on waking. At midday, he had been escaping the trolls, and what should have been supper he had spent in the hallway, listening to the soft sounds of Kella's movements in the bed.

Glancing about, he found that Pesky had vanished during the night. He supposed she wasn't much disposed for a second trip to Wetlyn's tower. Still dressed in his clothes from the witch, he rolled off the bed and grabbed his pack, making his way down to the main floor. It was dark in the inn. Gant was notoriously unwilling to waste lamplight during the day, no matter how dreary the weather. Atyr found, in brief conversation with the dour innkeep, that it was halfway from dawn to midday already. Well, he was eating some luckless food whether or not he ended up late to fix the witch's door.

Thanking Gant for the meal and the ale, he stumped towards the door, dreading the wet trudge up the spire. The old man called after him as he left.

"And don't be forgetting, Bracken, ye'll be reading us that poem tonight. I'm powerful curious to hear it." No luck in these unlucky times.

The rain came and went as he made his way out of town and up the lower slopes of the spire. It was always hinting that it might let up, but the clouds were honest; they never pretended to have any intention of leaving. The green turf lay flattened, grass heavy with water, and the gloom washed everything as grey as the rocks above.

By the time he made it to the stone steps that lead up the small ring of cliff, Atyr was soaked through, clothes, pack, and all. He checked his bow, and found even the waxed string too damp for use. A small oilskin in his bag held, among other things, a spare, which he pulled out to restring the bow. It was only a short way through the boulder-field atop the spire; the string would last that long, at least. He wished fervently that he wouldn't need it.

He looked up at the peak above, the tower no more than a dark smudge through the mist, a wet smear of charcoal against the grey-white canvas of the sky. Behind it, he could see the glow of the sun lightening the spread of cloud. He would be late, but only just.

He climbed the short stair, and almost stumbled over a knee-high wicker doll, standing on the top step. It was a crude creation, bundles of straw tied haphazardly with roughly-twisted straw cord. It had no features, only a bundle of yellow stalks for a head, and was unadorned, except for a note tied to its neck.

Wondering that the doll could remain balanced as it did, he picked it up. Although the water beaded and ran on the surface of the parchment, the note itself remained perfectly dry. He read the clear, simple hand there.

Come to the front door.

The trolls will not interfere.

-W.

Assuming 'W' was for Wetlyn, that was clear enough, though he wasn't sure what purpose the straw doll served. He didn't fully trust the part about the trolls either, and resolved to move through the boulders as he had the previous afternoon, avoiding the path once more.

The doll was soaked in his hand. He couldn't imagine the dreadful little thing needed to be returned, so he dropped it beside the trail. Two hands would be needed to keep his bow at the ready. Ducking quickly into the rocks, he faded into the grey haze. Higher now above the surrounding hills, the mist ran in long wisps and streamers around him, flying across the spire on the cold breeze. He checked the direction of the path through the rocks, and to his surprise, found the little doll standing once more where he had dropped it. That was odd. Some witchcraft of Wetlyn's kept it on its feet, no doubt.

He began to move now, weaving through the grey tumble like a dark patch in the fog. He didn't fancy his chances of seeing a troll before it was on him, but he doubted they would fare much better at finding him. He glanced back to make sure he still followed the path, and stopped. The straw doll was there again. It had followed him. It didn't move now, but only stood, whether facing him or turned away, he couldn't tell. Without features, perhaps it didn't matter.

For a long moment he watched the little form, shreds of white vapor floating past it through the air, the misting rain drenching its bunched stalks. He crept through the rocks towards it, and decided to risk the open trail, coming right up to the odd thing. Reaching out with the tip of his bow, he meant to touch it, but at that moment it began to walk. 'Scuttle' might be a better term; its limbs remained straight and unbent throughout its motion, and it wobbled swiftly from leg to leg, moving at a surprising pace up the trail to the tower.

Atyr watched it go in bemusement. Danger or not, it was a humourous sight, the tiny, hobbling little figure. A dozen paces up the trail, it stopped, as if waiting for him. He decided to risk the exposure of the path after all, counting on the assurance of Wetlyn's note, as well as the cover of the thick fog to keep the trolls off him. His hand tightened on his bow, and he nocked an arrow.

It was an odd trip. Atyr alert and looking every bit the Ranger, bow at the ready, trailing behind a little waddling figure made of straw. It tottered along at a pace so swift he sometimes had to jog a few paces to keep up. Despite his ears, no trolls harried the short journey. Twice, he thought he saw a grey form move among the mist-draped stone, but when he turned to look, he found nothing.

At the steps before the tower, the little straw man expired; the cord unwound, and it collapsed into a small jumble of sopping, yellow stalks. Atyr blinked down at it, water dripping from his draggling hair into his eyes, and said a silent farewell to his travel companion. He looked up.

On the door, there was a second note.

Tools and Material just inside

the back door. More instruction

to follow.

-W.

Why lead him to the front door only to send him to the back? He shrugged. Perhaps a straw man waited at both trails, to ensure his swift arrival. To attempt guess the ways of the ancient witch seemed a foolish thing.

On the shattered back door he found yet another note, a partner to the first.

Tools and Material just inside.

More instruction to follow.

-W.

She certainly was thorough with her note-leaving. He pushed through the door, and found a large stack of neatly milled white oak, dry and well aged. Atop it was an assortment of woodworker's tools of beautiful craftsmanship. Intricately etched handles looked crisp and unused. Bright steel shone even in the rainy half light, polished and honed. Atyr spent a long moment just marveling at the collection of treasures before he noticed the last note.

Door to be made to match original.

Once hung, exterior to be painted

with the provided. Once painted,

strike a light to surface.

-W.

He lifted a broad chisel, intricate knotwork carved masterfully into the handle. It fit his palm as though crafted with his hand in mind. Leaning against the pile, he found a saw almost identical to the one that had previously hung on the wall at Rehamel's but this one had a grip as ornate as the rest of the tools. He wondered what a saw like that would cost in town, if even he could find one, which he doubted. Rehamel's had been four banners. Would this cost six? More? He had no idea.

Stripping out of his soaked shirt and vest, he hung them on a broken chair, to dry to whatever degree was possible in the sopping air.

The work was simple. The door had been built for strength, not beauty, and replicating the design was an easy task. The hardest part of the whole thing was removing and straightening all the old iron fittings and fasteners. Even so, the all-day gloom was settling into the deeper dark of early evening by the time the door was assembled and hung.

He looked now to the small pot and brush that had accompanied the note. A thin, sickly and foul-smelling liquid was inside the pot, dark in color, either brown, or a dismal, mottled green; in the wet gloom of the evening he couldn't tell. He quickly slapped it across the wood of the door, fighting down the revolt of his stomach when he breathed too deeply of its putrid stink. It ran down like foul water, leaving thin streaks and tracks on the surface, marring the tight grain of the beautiful wood.

Once it was coated, he stood back, hoping he had done this last part correctly. He had always hated performing tasks he didn't understand. With no knowledge of why you did a thing, there was no way to make decisions; you could only hope that what you did was right, and it was impossible to tell if it wasn't. He pulled the oilskin from his pack, and dug out his strikelight. Standing as far back as he could, in case the foul liquid went up in a sheet of witchly flame, he struck a spark to the damp surface and ducked back, throwing an arm across his face.

At first, nothing happened, and he stepped forward to try a second time. He stopped. Spiraling out slowly from the point where he had set the spark to the door, a corruption grew. It spread in patterns like ferns, like the frost on a window on a winter's morning. Tendrils and fingers reached and stretched across the bright oak of the door, eating into it, rotting it, and leaving it aged and weathered as though it had hung on the tower untended and ignored for a hundred summers.

Whatever he may have expected, this was something else, but the reasoning was immediately clear. She didn't need strong barriers to keep her safe, she needed obscurity. Should some wandering townsfolk take it into their heads to climb the spire, and should they somehow evade the trolls, it would never do for them to find it being repaired and maintained. A door that could be latched was no doubt of value to her, but not at the cost of her secrecy.

Although, remembering Gant's strange offer of work a while back, perhaps that secrecy was less than perfect.

Wondering if he should try to talk to Wetlyn in person before he left, Atyr shrugged back into his shirt and vest. They were damp, but at least no longer dripping. Though that wouldn't last long on his journey back to town. He decided to try knocking on the front door. At the very least he needed to know if there was any hope yet of a mixture that might help with Helliot's agreement.

He arranged the tools as neatly as he could on the remaining lumber, and headed out through the rain to the front of the tower once again. A new note now hung on the door.

Good. It will serve.

No progress regarding devil.

Return tomorrow before dark.

-W.

Below it, a second note was affixed.

Keep the tools. A gift.

-Wetlyn

He re-read the second note twice before the words made sense, then a third time to make sure he had read correctly. Keep the tools? This was, without a doubt, the most extravagant thing he'd ever been gifted. And for what? The door had been a simple job, one he'd have asked only a few kips for, even had he not been building it in recompense for breaking it just the day before. Question not the ways of the witch, he reflected.

It was full dark, and still drizzling before he cleared the boulder fields, and the rain had turned chill with the passing of the sun. It was with stumbling steps and a clenched jaw that he made it back to Gant's lodging house.

Pushing through the door, chin tucked and arms wrapped about him, dripping heavily onto the floorboards, he was utterly unprepared for what met him. As the happy scent of spilled ale washed over him, a merry cheer went up from the table nearest the door.

"The poet! That's him there, the wet one by the door!"

His head snapped up, staring in shock through clinging strands of hair to find grinning faces across the floor turning to take in the thin, bedraggled figure on the threshold. Fates, fae, and shit. The luckless poem. Spurned shit!

He scanned the room quickly, and found Gant behind the counter, leaning on it and... well not quite grinning, but as close as the old man probably came to it. Beside him, Kella slumped, face resting on her palm. Pesky, on her shoulder, held the same position. They both looked up listlessly to meet Atyr's eyes where he stood.

Atyr crossed the floor, wishing his woodsman's stealth in the wilds translated to avoiding prying eyes in a crowded inn, but it didn't. He kept his eyes down and made his way to Kella and the sourly smiling innkeep.

"Bracken. Ye ready to read for us?" He looked the young man's sopping frame up and down. "Or will you be needing a quick change first?"

"I'll need a change. I'll need Kella too."

Kella pushed off the counter to join him, but Gant chuckled wryly, saying, "As I recall, the two of ye don't change in the same room. Mayhap Kella should wait for ye down here."

Kella jumped in. "Atyr and I really need to go over some lines, just really quick. Then I promise he'll be right back down. Hi Atyr, you look terrible."

The three of them escaped, and moved swiftly off the floor to Atyr's room.

Atyr spoke first. "So is there a poem?"

Kella nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes, I was at it until sunrise. Pesky helped, both with details of events and with the lines themselves. I'm afraid I was nearly useless at the Birdhouse all day. I hope Bird will forgive me when we read it to her."

He blinked. "We're actually going to read it to her? I thought we were just getting Gant off our backs. He doesn't know what's up, but he doesn't believe us about the poem, that's for certain."

Kella's face fell slightly. "I... We may have gotten carried away, Pesky and I. I would really like her to hear it, when all's done here. But the witch, that's the important part. What did you learn?"

"Not much. Not anything, actually. I didn't even see her." He upended his sopping pack on the floor, spreading out the contents. "She did give me the nicest set of tools I have ever seen though. I left them in the tower to keep them out of the rain. She left a note saying to come back tomorrow as well. So, I guess I'm at least a bit in favor. Maybe there's hope?" He looked up at her. "But the poem, let's just get it over with. Can I read it?"

She looked him up and down. "Hadn't you better change first? I only have the one copy, and I'd really rather you didn't drip all over it." On her shoulder, Pesky looked him over as well, disapprovingly.

Atyr nodded, picking up his spare clothes from the Teggums off the table. "Fair enough. Um..." He looked at her in discomfort.

She rolled her eyes, but she turned around. "Good enough? It's not as though I haven't seen everything already."

He was glad she couldn't see either the redness of his cheeks, nor the stiffness of his cock as he stripped naked and quickly pulled on the dry clothes.

She turned back around, noting the not-yet-subsided bulge in his pants. A little smile flickered across her lips.

Pesky couldn't resist commenting. "I never knew you liked poetry so much."

They both ignored the sprite. Kella handed him the parchment. "Here it is. Try a few lines."

Atyr took the page. Her handwriting was flowing, with long trailing letters and neat, even lines. He looked up. "You write very well."

"Just read it. But thanks."

Haltingly, he read out the first few lines. Kella shook her head. "Try again. Let each line really flow into the next. When you stop like that it sounds like a child's rhyme.

He began again, but this time she cut him short just a line and a half in. "No, no, it's not a chant, the words all mean something. You really have to read them like they mean what they mean."

Atyr closed his eyes. "Kella, I don't know how to do this. I don't know anything about poems, and I don't know what the words mean. I just have to read the thing so Gant can't say we were lying, and then I want food." Opening his eyes, he asked. "Can't you read it?"

"I think Gant really wants to hear you do it."

"That's just because he's a sour old prick. All I care about is that he can't point to us and say 'see, there never was a poem' and have me run out of town as a cutthroat. Or whatever."

"Atyr, I really don't think it's that serious. He doesn't trust you, sure, but mostly I think he's really just messing with you. Try one more time."

He did. She let him get a little further in this time, before shaking her head and taking the page back. "Maybe you're right. Gant will just have to deal with me reading it. Come on." She took him by the hand and lead him downstairs.

Another small cheer went up as they returned to the landing.

"Kella, what has Gant been telling them? Are they expecting me to be some great poet or something?"

She looked uncomfortable. "I don't know, but I really doubt it. From what I heard going around when I came in, I think he's really just set you up as a fool, and everyone's ready to hear you fumbling and stumbling over some really terrible couplets before they boo you off the floor."

"Fates, maybe I should read it after all."

"Atyr, no offense, but I actually really like this poem? I'd rather you didn't."

"Believe me when I say, no offense taken."

Kella and Atyr stepped forward into the cleared space in front of the bar. Gant came around and stood in front of them. He called out to the patrons.

"Quiet everyone! Our poet's here." The chatter fell away with a handful of chuckles and a lone whoop. Gant continued in a grudging voice. "Some of ye must know the Brackens. Live way out in the Brookwood. Honest folk. Hardworking." A few murmurs of assent. "Well, this here's one of the boys. Set himself to be a poet, and we're going to hear him out." Loud cheers, much laughter. They were ready to see him flounder for certain.

Kella stepped out past Gant. "Erm, actually, Atyr here has tried reading the poem, many times, and honestly he's really terrible." More laughing. "I really wanted him to read it, but I like this poem too much to hear it slaughtered with a blunt rock." The laughter roared across the floor now, and a chant went up.

Make him read it! Make him read it!

When the chant died, Kella continued. "I'm going to read it. I wrote it, and I really want it done right." Good-natured groans came from the happy crowd, and the chant started up again.

Make him read it!

Kella looked at Gant. "If that's all right?"

The sour old man looked like he wanted to say that it very much was not all right, but he threw up his hands and wandered back behind the counter, glaring out at the room with his customary scowl.

Kella stood tall at the front and looked around, waiting for the floor to quiet. Atyr, unneeded and unheeded, found his way back to the counter and leaned against it in the shadow of one of the wood posts that held the ceiling beams.

She began to read. The simple lines at the beginning that Atyr had read earlier sounded now new and vibrant in her voice. When he had stumbled through the words, they had felt plain, unlively, but now a life was in them. As she read and the poem grew in the air around her, the last mumbled conversations in the room faded, until only her voice rang across the floor, clear and strong.

------

"On Rusted Road

"He strode on rusted road in dust unwinding

And, with dragging foot, stood where Death would find him

And lay him down alone with life unbinding

On rusted road

With life unwinding

"On rusted road in dirt and dust they found him

And brought him up and bedded blankets 'round him

And, to house on hill did bear him, fever mounting

In Healing House

With fever 'round him

"In dour robes for hours strove the healers

While deathly strained remained his breath, beleaguered

Yet every morn still warmth did greet his keepers

In mourning robes

With death his keeper

"Like rose, a stem which grows its goring daggers

With faith that fate might thwart this foul attacker

So softly watched his dreams grow deep and darker

In faith and fate

With dreams now darker

"O! Spritely fae with face of starlight streaming!

Through slivered glass she slipped to see him dreaming

And Lo! With goodly grace did gift him faerie healing

In starlit grace

With faerie dreaming

"Wisdom, grey-plumed, knew well his faerie markings

And, to summons fair in summers dead she hearkened

Her time-worn door, with fiendishness long darkened

In summers dead

With devils darkened

"Fae-touched, he fell among fair devlish windings

Thrown by fate to fall where fiend would find him

With barb and branch he fought with feathered bindings

In fae-touched fate

With fiendish bindings

"From rusted road

Where fever blackened

Fae, Fiend, Fate

Bird, Thorn, Bracken"

------

There was no echo in that crowded room, yet her voice hung long in the air and rebounded far past the poem's ending. No other voice seemed fit to force its way through the singing silence that fell now heavily upon the listeners. Atyr, forgotten in the shadows, wondered at this slight, grey-robed woman he had only just met, his mind fraught with the understanding that he did not yet know her.

And then a brave soul found courage to shatter the ringing stillness, voice raised in brash challenge. For an instant the listeners looked almost affronted, offended by the ruining of that moment, but the offense was fleeting, and the voice was joined by others, and the cry soon encompassed the room.

Make him read it! Make him read it! Make him read it!

A slopping tankard was shoved against his palm, and many hands thrust him from the shadows to the clear floor beside Kella. She laughed a moment, then bowed to the crowd, and threw a dramatic hand out in Atyr's direction, extending the poem with a smirk worthy of Pesky at her worst.

He stepped for a moment one way and then another, instinctively looking to escape, but it was clear escape would not be permitted. With nothing else for it, he took the page with trembling fingers, swigged heavily of the foaming ale, and, with halting pace, he read.

Laughter tore through the inebriated audience. Every ear heared the stumbling words and remembered how they had rung out in Kella's voice. He was cajoled and petitioned for a second and then a third reading, each met with laughter more uproarious than the previous, interrupting him and stretching the ordeal long, before he finally managed to duck off the floor, now laughing himself, and at himself, red in the face with embarrassment and with ale.

It was a small consolation and a large relief when from behind the counter a small grey mote flew to him and buried itself warmly in his back. And fates, if that little mote of Experience didn't feel in some way sullen.

=========================

=========================

CHAPTER TWELVE

A Lazy Day and Little to Do

Kella had left the floor at some point while Atyr was, as she had described it 'slaughtering the poem with a blunt rock.' Pesky was gone as well. Where the little sprite had got to he didn't much care, but he had an idea where Kella might be. He hoped he was right.

As he wound his way to the stairs, hands patted him on the shoulders, and a second tankard was foisted on him. It was a merry crew, here at Gant's tonight. He half suspected the old innkeep of having dragged in extra patrons with the promise of embarrassing a naive, young man from the Brookwood. Halfway up the stairs, a voice slurred from the floor. "Luck and cheer to the Bracken boy!" A few other voices echoed it back lustily, but for the most part, the room had returned to other interests.

He found Gant eyeing him as he set foot on the landing, and wondered if he was in for more bleak, distrustful warnings against being 'untoward', but a slow nod from that wizened face set him at ease. He raised the tankard in a quiet salute, and returned the nod.

Pausing at the door to his room, hand resting lightly on the handle, he recalled with lurid clarity the muted sounds of Kella's motions last night as she brought herself to orgasm. His cock grew swiftly in his pants, pressing out and downward, heat and pressure against his leg. Well, either she's here or she isn't, and if she is, she can't possibly be offended. He opened the door and stepped into the dark of the small bedroom. She wasn't.

He pressed his lips together and looked around the room. His pulse was tripping lightly within him, and his breath came fast. Kicking his boots off, he tossed his pack against the door and lay down in comfort on the bed. With a shrug, he sipped slowly of the frothy ale, and set about distracting his mind from thoughts of Kella pleasuring herself right on this mattress, by considering his plan for the following day.

I wasn't much of a distraction. He found himself at a loss. Since his unfortunate agreement with Helliot, every moment of his time had been ravenously devoured by obligation and circumstance. Tomorrow tempted him with the promise of little to do, excepting a trip up the spire in the evening to see what Wetlyn might have uncovered. And importantly, to collect his new, wondrous tools. From morning until then... he was free to do whatever he wished. He had no idea what that was.

His thoughts trailed off to nothing, and he stared through the rain spattered glass out into the dark. And in that dark and the sound of the falling patter, Kella's chanting voice returned to him. The ale melted his plans and preoccupations into a foggy sort of wonder at the young woman from the Healing House.

It had been about him, he had realized partway through, limited though his experience with finer poetry had been, in the Brookwood. It was about Bird and Pesky and Helliot too, and of course Kella herself. He might not be a wordsmith, but as she had read the meaning had been clear. Was she a poet then? He was no judge of such things, but her words had pulled at him in ways he had not expected a poem to do. The small crowd had seemed similarly enraptured, at any rate. With her hair down, and the verses flowing from her gentle lips, she had been more beautiful in that moment even than Wetlyn, form perfected by witchcraft or no.

As the bitter drink muddled him further, the memory of Wetlyn's tortuous draining of his balls returned, and reinvigorated his sleeping cock. Fates but he was roused after the ale and the crowd and the laughing, and after seeing Kella. Again he recalled that she had lain right here where he now lay, and that she had touched and stroked and he knew not what all, excepting that she had come. Right here where he lay.

He drained the tankard, tossing it hastily on the table, followed by his shirt. He ripped at the laces of his pants, and freed his erection. He grasped it with both hands. It was a quick thing, and in moments he lay still again, panting, with cum spattered in white drops and drizzled in thick strings across his stomach and chest.

Early morning sun sent bright beams to frustrate his intent of sleeping late into the day. He squinted at the unwelcome intrusion under his eyelids, the throbbing telling him it had been some strong brew he'd drunk. At some point in the night, he must have woken to strip out of his pants and climb under the rough blankets, but he couldn't remember doing it. Stretching, he noticed he was hard again. A hand found its way down between his legs. He wasn't particularly aroused, but once more couldn't hurt. He had nothing better to do.

That hand had just begun to move along his length, when a loud tap against the window startled him. Guiltily, he jerked both hands from under the covers, and placed them behind his head with feigned casualness. There was nothing at the window. Only then did he remember that he was, in any event, safe from peering eyes up here on the second floor. Another crack sounded, and he saw a small object bounce away from the glass. Was someone throwing rocks?

He stood, and began to slide cautiously closer to peer out, just as a tiny, dusty-white sprite flitted into view, and pressed her nose to the wet glass. Without thinking, he flew to cover himself, but in his current state of obvious arousal, it was a hopeless attempt. Pesky shrugged, throwing her arms wide, and mimed swinging open the casement.

What was modesty among the fae? He answered with a grudging nod and shrug of his own, and with his erection bouncing erratically in front of him, crept to the window, staying low so as to remain unseen from the road.

Pesky shot in through the narrow gap, water drops flying from her, and did a quick circle of the bare room, before coming to rest on a pillow.

"Are we interrupting something? You look..." She pointed.

"Ack, Fates, no, it's just.... morning." He frowned. "'We?'"

"You do seem to wake up like that pretty much always, don't you?"

Not getting an answer to his 'we' question, he crouched and peered cautiously at the road in front of the lodging house. At this early hour it was entirely empty.

"Pesky, are you here with someone?" He began to look for his pants. Where had he stowed them last night? Clearly no place sensible. He considered who he was talking to, and amended. "Or with something?" No telling when yet more fae-ish creatures might come crashing into his strange life of late.

Pesky was lying on her back, playing with her toes. "Mmmm, yes, Kella's on her way up. I was just making sure you were awake and decent." She glanced his way. "Awake, at least."

"Fae take you, Pesky!" He redoubled his search. Had he stuffed the luckless pants back in his pack? "Couldn't have warned me sooner?"

"Could have. Kella figured the rocks were warning enough."

There were soft footsteps outside in the hall. And Fae take Gant, with no locks on his doors. The latch lifted. The handle turned. The door was opening.

"Half a moment!" he choked.

The door stopped. Kella's voice came softly through the crack.

"It's really not as though I haven't seen you naked in bed before." The door didn't close, but remained where it was.

"Just..." Atyr frantically searched for the pants, then gave up. "Half a moment!" he called again, and jumped back into bed, sitting against the headboard and pulling the blankets up over him. He did his best to pile them high enough that they would obscure his mortifyingly persistent arousal. "Alright!"

The door popped open the rest of the way, and Kella entered, a smothered grin on her lips.

"All that and you're really still in bed? Well, it's a familiar sight." She shut the door, and walked over to hop up next to him, leaning casually against the headboard.

"He was out of bed," Pesky offered. "But he had to hide his--"

"I couldn't find my pants," Atyr cut in loudly, and with finality.

Kella glanced sidelong at him, her grey-robed shoulder grazing his bare one. She cocked an eyebrow. "I have heard tell that pants really are a continual struggle for you. Now that's the poem I should have written. 'Bracken's Pants'!" She grinned. "It would be an instant favorite downstairs."

Atyr decided that ploughing boldly to a different track was the best thing to do. "What brings you here so early?" He hoped his voice sounded relaxed, but he knew it likely didn't.

"Nothing, really. I'm just on my way to the Birdhouse. We thought we would stop in before heading up the hill." Atyr noticed he was hearing a lot of 'we' this morning.

"Well then, what are you two up to at the Birdhouse so early?"

"She works there, Atyr."

Kella nodded. "I do in fact. It's really true." She met his eye, a dangerous mirth to her lips. "It's where I touched your penis, if you recall." She glanced down at the piled blankets in his lap, which had twitched at her words. "Part of you clearly does."

What the rest of Atyr recalled, was that only a short while ago he had thought this young woman in her lumpy healer's attire to be shy, and somewhat retiring. His appraisal of her had shifted dramatically in the past couple days. He had no reaction, except to will his cheeks to stop reddening. He was unsuccessful.

She continued. "Actually, we were talking last night after we left during your dramatic reading." She paused for effect. "We think it's best if we tell Bird this evening, while you're at the witch's. Just the bare bones of it all."

Pesky snorted. "Heh. 'Bare Bone'" They both ignored her, but Kella's mouth twitched slightly. She let her shoulder lean into Atyr's.

"Anyway, I thought we should really make sure you didn't mind if I went without you, since it's your mess as much as it's anyone's." She glanced at him and he winced. "Sorry, I really didn't mean it quite like that." Now it was her turn to blush.

The things that did and did not embarrass this girl...

Atyr thought for a moment. "Yeh, I think that's probably fine. I had honestly wanted to tell her as soon as I explained things to you the other morning, but... well it didn't exactly go that way, did it?" He breathed out with a dry chuckle. "And where will you be Pesky?"

"I'm coming with her to whisper my fabulous, fae wisdom in her ear." The little sprite grinned, dancing slowly across the bed. "And also to annoy Belzy."

"Will I see you before I head back to Wetlyn's?" He desperately wanted to corner the sprite and try to get some sort of understanding of what exactly had happened on that stormy night in the birches when she had seemed a starlit angel of fury and lust.

A sneer twisted up the miniature features at the witch's name. "Perhaps. I haven't a clear plan for the day..."

Healer and Fae departed soon after, and Atyr was alone once more in the little room. He found had no desire to pick up where he had left off before the interruption.

It turned out that his pants had got stuffed to the foot of the bed, under the covers. He drew them out and dressed once more in the simple clothes the elderly Teggums had given him.

Collecting the rest of his scattered things from around the floor, now dry, he noticed the two kips he had found in Wetlyn's cellar. He scooped them up and was about to drop them in his purse, when he discovered they weren't truly kips at all. Or, if they were, they were of a strange mint. Though roughly the right size and weight, something about the color was slightly off, redder than it should be, and they were smooth on both sides, not a marking on them. Foreign make? Tokens of some sort? Fates could say. He dropped them in the purse nonetheless, muffling the lot with a bit of scrap weave, and continued packing.

He had a leisurely breakfast downstairs. Gant was as close to jovial as could be reasonably expected, and Atyr surmised the old man's suspicions must have been mostly allayed. He returned to his room, enjoying the peace, the solitude, the quiet, and most of all, the freedom to do nothing for a while. He hoped to secure a large oilskin to wrap his newly gifted tools in against the rain before his evening trip, but he couldn't quite drag himself out into the damp just yet.

At midday, he purchased the luxury of a meal and an ale for two kips, then, after lingering as long as he could, forced himself out of doors. It was cold outside, and he wished yet again that he'd had the presence of mind to bring his weather cloak when he had left his camp in the Brookwood. He was heading to the leather-worker's; if he had a weak moment, he might spend some of his funds on a new one.

Once in the shop, he managed to restrain himself, and purchased only the oilskin for his tools. His body could deal with the rain for a few days more before he manged a return to his camp by the pool. He paused, rolled hide in hand, and realized it had been a full two weeks since he had left on his "few day" journey to town. It felt like over a month.

From the glazier's he purchased something he had long desired. As a child, his mother's storm lantern had fascinated him. In wind and rain, the flame would continue, with barely a flicker. Even held sideways, the light would not go out. Metal doors could be slid open and closed on each side to direct the light, or shut it out entirely. He had never before been able to justify spending the coin, even had he had it, but now, with an evening trip to Wetlyn's tower ahead of him, he told himself that a dependable light would be indispensable for his late-night return down the spire. It cost him a banner and twelve for the clever, little bauble of glass and brass. It was among the most expensive items he had ever purchased. He felt not the slightest regret.

The dreary, late-afternoon trek up the spire was as wet, cold, and miserable as the previous day's journey had been, even with his new oilskin held over his head to deflect the worst of the rain. The wind was stronger today, and the biting drops flew in sidelong under the cover once he got high enough up the steep slopes.

He was soaked through by the time he reached the steps, just as the sun began to slide behind the rolling edge of the hills. A second, sopping straw doll greeted him in the hastening gloom. Its note read only:

Before Dark.

-W.

Hoping her previous day's instructions regarding the trolls remained true, he jogged along after the swift little figure as it toddled along the trail. Dark was truly falling as he reached the steps of the tower, and just as the doll fell lifeless into its component parts, he heard a long, mournful keening, distant in the rocks behind him. Trolls? He thought not; it sounded unlike the noises he had heard from them, thinner, and more haunting.

He pounded on the door, and it sprang open at the first blow. He ducked inside without even shaking himself at the threshold, and the door slammed shut behind him, as if of its own accord. Something scuttled dryly past his feet, and he leapt back to find yet another straw man. Around it's neck the metal collar hung, with a second note.

To be worn on entering.

-W.

You understand.

-Wetlyn

Atyr considered the post script. It appeared as though she was perhaps trying to soften her command? A good sign, he hoped. The straw doll waited motionless. He tried not to think too closely about what he did, as he fastened death into place around his throat. As soon as the collar clicked shut, the little doll scurried off up the curving stone stairs he knew led to Wetlyn's study. He followed it to the door, where it pushed its way in and then turned, waiting for him. He stepped into the unlit room, hit once more by the must of parchment and of spice, underlain by the strange chemical bite, and found it empty. The door slammed behind him and the little doll collapsed.

Dripping into a puddle of his own making, he looked around him. Unease crept up his back. He had been taking the witch's good will for granted, but now, on consideration, he realized nothing in their interactions justified that faith. She had drugged him, bound him, collared him and threatened him with death, and all because she had wrapped soft hands around his cock and drained his eager balls, he had been assuming he was safe. He considered too, and not for the last time, the bones he had found in the cellar beneath the trap door...

Presently, the door opened again, and Wetlyn entered the room, a neat pile of bright fabric in her hands. She was clothed still in reds and purples, but her dress was longer and more richly ornamented, with elegant splashes of black embroidery, winding down and around her figure. He opened his mouth to greet her, and to apologize for the mess on her floor, but she spoke first.

"Bathe, dress, and we will have dinner." She kicked aside the small pile of straw, and then placed the clothing on the stone bench where two days prior she had chained and milked him nearly dry.

"Hi, Wetlyn. Good to see you."

She stood impassive in the gloom. A slow blink of her violet eyes was all that acknowledged his greeting. "You may place your wet things by the door." She indicated a small wood table, then stood again, watching him.

He didn't immediately move or respond. He wanted to ask about the moaning, otherworldly howl that had hastened his entry to the tower, but she didn't seem eager to engage in conversation just yet.

"It will be taken care of." She gestured again at his soaking attire.

Blinking, he figured this was one yet more place we would have to let modesty lie, and pulled the sopping garments slowly off his shivering limbs. As on the previous day, cold eyes scanned intently across his skin as he bared it. Against his will, his body responded to her gaze. With no alternative but to hope for his erection to subside, he looked off at a wall and began to peel off the clinging pants. As his penis sprang free, Wetlyn's level, resonant voice demanded his attention.

"The tools were not to your liking."

He froze, pants only half down his thighs, caught utterly off guard by the comment. "Uh. Ermm, no, they are astounding. Thank you, thank you so much for them. I didn't want to get them wet in the rain, so I came back with this to--" He touched the oilskin, then realized he was still half out of his pants with his hard cock bouncing around, and embarrassment cut him short.

She nodded curtly. "Good." She pointed to the alcove with the tub, and a small, localized glow of the purple witchlight he had seen the other day began to illuminate it. "Bathe. There is clothing for you here when you are finished." She dropped a hand towards the festive stack on the stone bench.

She sat there, between the clips where his hands had been restrained as she had pumped him wildly through her fists the other day, and watched from a distance as he bathed. As before, she asked that he remain standing, lit by the odd fae glow. Though he didn't drag the affair long this time, the last of the daylight in the main chamber had almost entirely faded by the time he was done.

He returned to her, still naked, and looked at the gaudy clothing, colors muted in the dark. Glancing at the door, he found that his own clothes, as well as his pack, had disappeared. Straw dolls' work, likely.

Wetlyn looked up at him as he hesitated. "The clothes have been tailored for a better fit, after seeing the looseness of the first set I gave you."

He blinked. She'd had an outfit tailored for him for this evening? He picked up the pile and sorted through the many garments.

"You do not wear small clothes." It was a statement.

"Ermmm..." he began, not sure how he intended to continue. Small clothes were not common among the rustic, scattered families of the Brookwood wilds.

"You will tonight."

Nodding slowly, he stepped into the small, close fitting garment. It hugged him snugly and ended just below his ass. The soft material was unlike any fabric he had worn, thin and with remarkable stretch to it.

Wetlyn made some small motion in the dark, and the purplish fae light glowed slowly into being about the two of them. He thought he had regained control of his arousal, but he rapidly began swelling again in the tight fabric as he saw the witch's eyes roving over his crotch. He tied tight the thin drawstring and hastened to pull on the gaudy pants, but she held up a hand to stop him.

She stepped forward and ran two fingers under and around the waist band. She then repeated the action around both leg openings, and nodded, apparently satisfied with the fit. He jumped slightly as she reached up between his legs and pinched the fabric right behind his balls. Without looking at him, she commented.

"Perhaps a bit loose, although..." Her hand slid forward to cup his stiffening bulge. He froze, and for a brief moment she squeezed and massaged him. As soon as he was fully hard, cock bent uncomfortably within the fitted pouch of the small clothes, she nodded again. "Yes. You require more expansion than many." Nodding once more, she stepped back, and indicated for him to continue dressing.

Pulling on the rest of the rich clothes, he found himself in fitted silks and velvets of muted yellow and royal red, with silver trim and small, bright blue highlights, all glowing oddly under the witchlight. As he donned each garment, she stopped him to repeat her inspection. He felt many times a fool, but he thought Wetlyn's gaze became somewhat less stony as she watched him dress. She seemed quite satisfied with herself, overall.

She stood and laid her hand on his arm at the elbow. Whatever her thoughts were, they didn't expose themselves in her voice.

"We will dine in my chamber."

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ears, Breasts, Dinner, and a Poem

Wetlyn led him from the study back into the dark of the winding stair. They passed a landing with another door, climbing one flight further, to a final landing where the steps came to an end. He assumed this must be the top of the tower. The door here was studded with an array of intricate latches and locks. "Turn," she instructed, and he did.

There was a flurry of clicks and scrapes and noises of metal on metal behind him, and then she touched his arm once more and brought him into what was clearly her living quarters. It spanned the top floor, one large, circular room, and the entire area glowed brightly with the purplish light. In fashion, it seemed to Atyr as though it might fit into the palace of the Lord and Lady themselves, so rich were the furnishings. In design, it was nearly a one-room cabin, with cooking area, bed, and all other necessities for daily life crowded together in the space.

As they entered, a wave of delicious aromas washed over him, alerting him to a hunger in his stomach he hadn't realized had been growing there. The table was laid in elegant, luxurious style, with a red cloth, and mats at both places, and silver cutlery, and of course, food. And it was food as Atyr had never seen, as if conjured from a faerie story, with crisp breads lightly browned, and fish glazed with something that made it shine like porcelain, and fruits arranged so perfectly in a bowl that to take a single berry would be to lessen the artistry of the thing. All was laid in finely fluted dishes of silver, inset with gems of red and blue. On a stand in the center of it all and rising above the rest, stood a tall crystal decanter filled with a wine so dark as to be nearly black, excepting only where the fae light shone through and revealed its rich red color.

He stopped as he saw the spread and Wetlyn walked on without him a pace. She turned. "You are not hungry." He knew she knew that he must be, and that she knew also the reason he had stopped, but he shook his head swiftly nonetheless, to deny it.

"Sit, then." She waved a delicate hand at one of the chairs, black wood of some kind unknown to him, carved in dense patterns and fastened with rivets of silver, with red cushions on their seats.

He walked slowly to the chair, afraid almost to sit on it, but Wetlyn's eye was on him, so he did. She lifted the ruby-filled crystal and poured for him, to the brim in a goblet to match the decanter. She poured for herself as well, and took her own seat. Without ceremony, she took a sip of her wine, and began to eat, crisply, neatly.

Atyr hesitated to touch anything on the table, lest he disrupt the craftsmanship of the arrangement, and reveal himself no more than the Brookwood boor. He looked at Wetlyn and found her eyes still on him. "Drink," she said simply. Again, he hesitated, tales of poison and intrigue springing darkly to his mind, but the deadly collar weighed heavy about his throat, and he realized the unnecessary redundancy in poisoning him. It would be inefficient; he knew little about the witch, but inefficiency seemed unlikely to be present in anything she did.

He took a sip and found it to be unexpectedly sweet, like a heady syrup on his tongue. He took a second, larger mouthful just to better taste it.

"Eat as well. It is strong, and we have much to discuss." Wetlyn's voice was flat as always, but he wondered if he might have heard a note of disapproval in her tone.

Glass set back on the red tablecloth, he began with restraint to pick at his fish and bread. He wanted to shove large, satisfying bites of the delicious stuff into his mouth, but he was unwilling to let himself be just the simple Ranger, here in this lordly space. Wetlyn ate in silence.

"Wetlyn?" Witch's eyes met his own, and he continued. "What was that ghostly moan, just as I reached the tower?"

She considered him a moment, then returned her gaze to her plate. "Other things than trolls abide here. But I did not hear it. I cannot say."

"It was a long, low sound, like a human voice almost, but it was definitely not a human. At least not a human like anybody I've ever met."

Wetlyn took a precise sip from her crystal goblet and made a slight, ambiguous gesture with the fingers of her other hand, but did not otherwise respond. Well, hopefully with the help of his new lantern he could make it back down the spire tonight and remain in peaceful ignorance.

They ate in silence. Atyr tried to mimic Wetlyn's manners and behavior to at least some approximation. The wine was affecting him more swiftly than he would have expected though, and maintaining what he hoped was a genteel air was becoming increasingly challenging. His customary rough, woodland table etiquette probably wouldn't get him killed, he was fairly certain, but he needed her to like him. He needed her help. And again, he was only fairly certain.

Wetlyn took another measured sip from her glass, and began at last to speak at length.

"I have spoken with several friends, and also with several who are not. I do not know that I have an answer to your problem." His hopes and his face fell, but she carried on. "I do not know, but I suspect. Through long winters passed, I have kept correspondence with an enchanter. Emrus is his name." She paused, catching his eye. "Do you know the varieties of fae-touched mage?"

Atyr shook his head. He couldn't recall having heard the term "mage" before, let alone list any of the apparent varieties.

"Witchcraft." She stated the word and let it hang for a moment. "Enchantment, Sorcery. In the tales we tell children, we call any mage a Witch if she is a woman, and Enchanter or Sorcerer if a man, seemingly without pattern. Warlocks, Enchantresses, and Sorceresses are forgotten in story. But these words have meaning.

"Sorcery is the magic that is most visible. Sudden fires. Lightning. It is swift, brutish, fleeting, and above all, imprecise." A visible expression crossed her face at the word 'imprecise', a slight sneer of the lip.

"Witchcraft is the study of the properties inherent to things. It is the process of extracting and combining those properties in ways not intended. If you believe there is intent to the world." Atyr reflected idly on the common story theme of witches and heresy, of irreverence for the Fates. "It is a careful study," she continued. "It is replicable. It is precise.

"There is no sorcery to which you should wish to subject the old woman, even if it would allow her to converse with the devil for some brief moment. And in witchcraft... if there is a recombination of properties which would allow her that ability, I have not identified it."

Atyr interrupted. "But, if you can make a drink that allows people to see the fae, why couldn't you make one to let them hear? You know, instead of snakes' eyes use snakes'... ears, or whatever..." He trailed off, realizing the inaptness of his choice of creature, but snake's eyes featured prominently in witches' potions in the childhood tales. He realized as well the foolishness of telling this hundred-summer witch her trade, a trade which he had only heard defined an instant before.

Her look remained blank. "Snakes' eyes do not contain the property which permits sight of the fae. But you are a quick study. Your eyes, for example would be more suited, as they can see the fae. Would you permit me to experiment with your ears? Perhaps we will make progress tonight."

Atyr froze. His first assumption would be that she was not in earnest, but then, she had already collected his blood, hair, and of course, cum. He thought yet again of the piled bones in her cellar. And with the collar on, he couldn't stop her. He realized then, that all evening he had not seen the wooden splinter, the sliver that held his life hostage. Cautiously, he looked up to study her face, and found a smile on it.

It was not a comforting smile. Though nothing could mar the alluring sensuality of her features, there was a coldness and a danger in the curve of her slightly parted lips. The glint of perfect, white teeth, while enticing, was enticing in the way that the edge of a cliff is sometimes enticing. To feel desire for a thing is not to willfully want it. He did his best to curl the corners of his own mouth upward as well, but quickly abandoned the attempt. He wet dry lips with more wine.

"I do indeed use faeling eyes to make my True Sight draught. Troll is sufficient. I have already experimented with their ears." Here she stopped. "I will admit to my earlier skepticism towards your claim of troll-slaying. I was impressed to find the two bodies you left. But, their ears were not of use. Hearing is a more direct sense than is sight, and the property is both stronger and more elusive."

Atyr was still less than absolutely certain that she was unserious about his ears, but he didn't want to press it. "I'm sorry, 'failing eyes'?" He latched onto anything that might leave the topic of his ears behind. "Why should the eyes need to be failing?"

The witch paused, then blinked. "Ah. 'Faeling', not 'failing'. Faeling are like the fae. They are fae, I suppose, but they are lesser. It is as with mortal human and mortal beast. Eyes of the fae proper would work as well, as would those of the fae-touched such as ourselves. It is only the difficulty of procurement which prevents the use. It may be that fae or even fae-touched ears might suffice, but again..." Her eyes fell piercing on his face. "... the difficulty is in the procurement."

Atyr swallowed deeply and tried to speak, then swallowed again. "Right. So, then... the enchanter? He can help?" It was getting tricky to track everything. The wine, he supposed.

Wetlyn, however, was not to be turned away from the topic of ears so swiftly. "Even were I to take your ears, and even were I able to distill the property of fae hearing from them, there is no guarantee I would be able then to perfect the process and mixture. These things often take many trials. You have only two ears." Fates, but he wished she would move on...

She did. "Enchantment is the inversion of witchcraft. It is more elusive, and again, less precise. With enchantment, objects in the world may be imbued with properties they do not, and even should not have."

"So... your enchanter friend, Emrus, he might--"

"He is not a friend."

"Understood. But he could come and enchant Bird so she could hear fiends, or something?"

"I do not know. I doubt very much that he would make the journey to Woodstead. But he has intimated that he may be able to assist."

"With... what?" Atyr thought about all the stories he had heard as a child. "A magic locket or something, that she could wear?"

"Unlikely. But I do not know. I suspect he might be capable of imbuing something with the necessary property, which I might then be able to use as a component. Such communication over distance is demanding, and as such, limited.

"He has said he believes he can help, and has assented to your visiting him either to obtain what aid he can offer, or if not, at least to discuss the possibilities."

Atyr nodded slowly, toying clumsily with the gem-studded, silver knife on his plate. He caught her eyes tracking his idle fidgeting, and laid the utensil carefully back down. He sipped again from his goblet, now nearly empty. The silence lengthened.

"So, if I go, how far is it? Where would I find him?"

"He is located several days' travel past the southern border of the Oldwood. Several days' travel for a Ranger with his wits about him. For others it might be longer."

The Oldwood. It was a much feared place, and most didn't dare enter, though Atyr had never held it in awe like many of his fellows. His own father had spent many a long night between its ancient trunks, and Atyr had passed over into it with him a handful of times, growing up in the Brookwood. He had never much believed the stories of ghouls and trolls and ghastly monsters. Those child's tales, however, seemed now much more plausible. The trolls in particular. He took another sip from the goblet, draining it.

Wetlyn stood and refilled it to the brim once more. He squinted at her glass, half full of sweet, black-red liquid. Had she had a full one already? Or was this her first? He hadn't kept track.

"In the morning, I will provide written instructions to find his abode. You may be there for a few days or more, depending on what he has in store for you. He may make requirements of you in trade. I do not know. Once you return, there may be more work for me to do before we have anything usable. Again, I do not know. If you believe time to be sensitive here, you would do well to move swiftly."

He drank again, the sweet wine filling his head with a pleasant fuzziness. "Hmmm, yeh I can leave soon. Tomorrow or the next day maybe." He thought. "Ah did you say in the morning you'd make me a map? Can't you do it tonight?"

"I do not recommend you descend the spire in the dark."

He grinned at her broadly. "Oh, I'm alright. I got a lamp. Real good one. Bought it today. Kip and a half. No, Banner and a half." He laughed to himself. "Kip and a half..."

"I also do not recommend using a light. There are other things than trolls, as I have told you."

He remembered the wailing moan. It had a sobering effect. "Right. Yeh. Yeh, I can just sleep here somewhere I guess." Hopefully no place too uncomfortable; he had only seen the single bed. He wondered if she would lock him to the chair again, or in some cell. Well, the wine ought to help him sleep through the night, no matter where she stuck him. As long as it wasn't that cellar with the bones...

The conversation drifted from there, and Wetlyn became almost chatty, if chatty was a word that could ever describe her. She asked him question after question about himself, and he found it easier and easier to talk to her. He forgot the collar, and lost himself in the pleasure every person finds in holding forth about their own life.

He was aware, in a cloudy sort of way, that she didn't offer much of anything about herself, and that when he asked her, she would answer in such a manner that he would find, after a moment, that he hadn't actually learned anything at all, and was somehow telling her about himself once again.

From time to time as well, she asked him about things he couldn't remember having told her. Perhaps he had forgotten? The wine was awfully strong... As the dinner dragged on, she asked him several times about memories he knew she couldn't know, because he had never and would never have shared them. Not with her, not with anyone. Then again, they had been talking a long time, was it possible he had let something slip? Again, the wine...

By now, it was late, and a trio of straw dolls had shuffled in and were busy clearing away the remains of the meal. Atyr wondered if they had prepared it as well. He couldn't imagine the little, knee-high bundles preparing food, but then again, neither could he imagine Wetlyn stooping her elegant form over an oven. And, he reflected, just two days ago he wouldn't have imagined a knee high bundle of straw doing much of anything.

A distant wail came mournfully up through the tower window, and Atyr's spinning head cleared somewhat. Something about that moaning voice filled him with dread every bit as much now, high in the witch's tower, as it had outside on the spire.

"That!" he exclaimed. "That's the moaning I heard before. It's that." He nodded widely for emphasis, in case she didn't understand.

Wetlyn seemed, he thought, to hesitate for a moment before responding. "I am sorry, I was considering some of the details of your stories of your youth in the Brookwood. Your parents seem to have been very resourceful." Or maybe she hadn't hesitated. It was hard to think right now.

"That moaning voice, it's it. Is it? It's... that's what I was asking about! What is it?"

She blinked once. "I apologize. I was distracted and did not hear it. Again, there are many things which may cry out in the night here on the spire. It is a fae place."

Atyr was about to continue describing the sound, but she spoke over him. "It is time we went to bed." She stood, and extended a hand.

He sighed, giving up. Had she really not heard it? Perhaps she had become inured to the nighttime sounds here over the long years of her life. He took her hand and stumbled to his feet. "Is a good plan." He smiled at her. The cry still echoed in his mind, but she was so, so beautiful. So very, very...

"Where I sleep? I promise you can trust me safe. To be safe. For you, I mean. So you don't have to lock me up anywhere nasty. With the bones. I got this!" He tapped clumsily at the collar. "Death, right?" He laughed a bit, and struck it again. "Death!"

She was leading him across the room to the bed, he realized, and he stopped, stumbling forward a step. "Oh. With you?" He panicked, wondering if he had misinterpreted. "Not with you as in. Not sleep with you, 'cause I don't want to. I mean, not that I don't want to but just, uhhhhh..."

Wetlyn looked at him, calm. "How do you sleep?"

He blinked. He was unsteady. He wanted to sit down. "Uh, I sleep... lying down?"

Wetlyn turned away and began unfastening her dress. "I do not wear clothes when I sleep. This does not bother you?"

He gaped at her, watching as she swiftly exposed her shoulders, bright in the odd light, and let the dress drop to the floor, revealing a sheer, clinging slip. "Uhhhh, no. No, not bothered." She glanced down at his crotch, and he followed her gaze. It was pretty obvious how not bothered he was.

She pulled the slip over her head, baring herself down to stockings and small-clothes. Her skin glowed brightly under the purple witchlight. He tried to think about Kella to keep his head, but all that he could consider is how a poet like her might describe what he was now seeing.

Breast like... round... fruit?

Hips... to touch and a waist that's cute?

I want to eat her like a fruit... no, can't rhyme fruit with fruit... eat her like...

She was topless now, perfect breasts free and full and firm on her chest. He reminded himself that they were only so perfect and perky and only bounced so nicely because she had spent scores of summers sculpting them to be so.

It didn't matter.

I want to eat her like dinner,

her eyes are pretty and her waist is, is... slimmer!

If I could be between her thighs

I would push inside her with my... uhh.. Oh that was it!

If I could be between her legs

I would push inside her with my peg! That's good!

Only a small triangle of cloth covered her now, pressed tight between her legs. She reached into the thin waistband, and pulled out a sliver of wood. Atyr stopped composing poetry, and stared. He tried to feel scared, but all he wanted to do was to walk up and pull that scrap of fabric away. Drunk as he was though, he remembered Kella, and the thought of her was a clarity in his mind and a clamp on his heart. He couldn't control his desire, but he could control what he did.

"Hey uh... I can just sleep downstudy. Downstairs I mean. In study." He blinked at her, swaying where he stood.

"I would ask your company." She placed the splinter on an ornate wooden stand beside the bed, and stepped neatly out of her last remaining shred of modesty. His eyes fell down her body, drawn irrepressibly to the soft curve of her navel, and the meeting of her smooth thighs. A fantasy flooded his mind, so vivid that he could feel the slick heat of her pussy as he slid into her. He opened and closed his mouth, swallowing, and trying to think of a response other than to reach out and caress her skin.

She looked at him, face calm as ever, but her breathing quickened as his eyes roved of their own volition across every naked curve of her crafted form. "We will not engage in sexual activity. I wish only for company." She swallowed slightly, and had he not been fixated on every detail of her smooth body, he would never have noticed it. She repeated her question. "How do you sleep? I have prepared no sleeping clothes for you."

"Um. I can wear my pants. These pants I mean. Your pants?" he looked down at the gaudy, stiff, form-fitting garment.

"That will not be comfortable for you." She walked to the bed and slipped under the covers, obscuring the intoxicating sight of her body in one seductive motion. "You may strip as I have." She lay back in the bed, eyes fixed on him.

He stood a long moment before beginning to remove the clothes. This was the third time in three days he had stripped for her, but it was the most exhilarating. His pulse slammed against his neck and ears and skull, and he felt nearly sick with arousal. The clothing was more intricate then he was used to wearing, and his shaking fingers fumbled long with buttons and laces, but at last he stood beside the luxurious bed, naked, and as hard as he could remember ever being.

Wetlyn's eyes had watched every motion he had made, and now they fixed on his erection, as it stood out from him in the warm air of the room, leaping with his pulse. Eyes never leaving it, she gestured for him to climb into the bed beside her.

He did so, and the slight friction of silk sheets against the tight-stretched skin of his cock brought him fearfully close to the edge of orgasm. He let out a shuddering breath, and lay still, turning away from her on his side and staring at the wall. The purple glow faded, and went out, and only the cold light of the half moon stretched now into the room, patches of white-silver across the floor and furnishings.

In the dark, he froze as he felt the witch move towards him in the bed. Her warm, soft body pressed against his from behind, and the mild scent of her was like fire in his core. Her arm draped over his waist, hand lightly resting on his lower stomach, fingers brushing the short hair above his cock.

In his ear, her steady voice murmured. "Sleep well."

Wetlyn herself, as far as his muddled senses could tell, was almost instantly asleep, but for himself, consciousness wouldn't leave. His head sloshed with the stuff of dreams, and he forced his eyes closed. The sinking feeling of darkness and warmth and comfort enveloped him and tried to pull him gently down, but sleep wouldn't come. Everything he could think was of the naked witch behind him, sculpted over a long life into an image of beauty as perfect as she could imagine. Her hot breath tickled the back of his neck. Her fingers rested on him so low that when he breathed they at times whispered fleetingly against his tenacious erection.

He lay like that, tense, vibrating with arousal denied, until the moon had fallen and true blackness took the room. Sleep still evaded his pursuit, and the effects of the wine gradually left him entirely.

There was a hitch in the breathing on his neck, and a tiny, movement on the pillow behind his head. The hand on his stomach drifted lower, and wrapped itself loosely around the base of his cock. His breath caught. A long moment passed, but Wetlyn was still again. Her breathing was steady once more. Had she moved unconsciously in her sleep?

Everything in him wanted to thrust his hips into her loose grip, to fuck her hand as she lay curled against his back, to come, to release himself into passion, but he resisted. We will not engage in sexual activity. Her words hadn't left his memory, even in his present state. And more, he thought of Kella. He had come for the witch once, but that had been in service of a solution to this problem he found himself in. That was all it had been.

This would be different. This would be pleasure for pleasure's sake, and much though he might crave it with every muscle and tendon of his body, he--

The hand on his cock squeezed slightly, and began to move again. Slowly, she slid out to his tip, and then swiftly she drove back down to the base. He gasped, and his hips thrust, unbidden. Again she slid out along his length and slammed back down. A third time, and a fourth. In less than a dozen strokes he convulsed and clenched and released and the cum shot out of him and she caught it in her palm, wrapped around the head, squeezing and milking him.

As he finished and the last few spurts filled her hand and leaked through her fingers, she slid back down his length, working the slick cream up and down his hard shaft. Then, fingers dripping, she let her hand slip off of him.

She reached between his legs from behind and grasped his balls, gently massaging them for a moment, rubbing his cum across them. Her slippery fingers drifted further back, tickling the sensitive skin there, and then slid swiftly between the cheeks of his ass, dragging in one long motion up to tease the small of his back. He jumped slightly, and her hand returned to his stomach, and was still.

He slept.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A Map Without Direction

When he woke in the morning he wished he hadn't. The sun was bright. He'd slept only half as long as might be liked. He regretted the wine. And there was a witch with eyes like shards of purple glass sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, fully dressed, and holding a thin splinter of wood right in front of his face. It was bent dangerously between fingers and thumb. Her face was cold.

"Sit up." Her voice was cold to match. He obeyed. She flexed the sliver further, and he watched, horrified as tiny fibers started to peal free at the apex of the bend.

The collar seemed to clutch at his neck as he tried to make sense of the situation, head pounding, eyes wild. Could he snatch it from her before she could snap it? There was no way, he'd just as likely break it in the process. "I'm sorry! I-- if this is because of last night, I didn't think-- I thought it was what you wanted, I really didn't--"

The wood snapped. Atyr gasped and leapt back, hands flying to the metal band around his throat. Nothing happened. He waited, eyes squeezed tight, for death to take him, but it didn't.

The bed moved as Wetlyn stood up. "I've decided to trust you." He opened his eyes and looked at her. She looked back at him where he sprawled, still naked on the bed. "You may wish to bathe after your orgasm in the night. Or not, as you choose." Her eyes flicked to his soft, fat cock. It moved slightly at her words.

Atyr covered himself with the blankets. "You removed the spell on the collar? I can take it off?"

A tiny smile flirted with her lips. "There was no spell. You may remove it." The smile became briefly more firm, but then vanished. "Although I find it suits you."

He blinked at that, unsure what to think, but she was already walking away. "Come to the study when you are dressed." She glanced at his bare stomach, and then gestured to the foot of the bed, where the simple attire the Teggums had gifted him was neatly laid. "If you wish to dress. I have drawn you a map."

Atyr did wish to dress, and once he had, he hurried to the study. He placed the collar on the desk in front of Wetlyn. "This whole time. This whole time. There was never any spell on this? What was the splinter of wood?"

She was calm as she answered, disinterested. "It was a splinter of wood."

"And the collar?"

"It is a collar. An enchanted collar such as I described, tied in such a way to such a small object is beyond the scope of my craft. Nevertheless, it served as was needed. Come, I wish to show you the map."

It was less a map, and more an odd diagram of interconnected places and ideas. Atyr looked at it in confusion. He'd been spending a lot of time confused, the past two weeks. Up until then, he'd thought himself clever, at the very least. Perhaps even somewhat more so than the average denizen of Woodstead or the surrounding Brookwood, a belief that should have been strengthened by his discover of the Attributes, but now... his pride seemed to be joining his modesty in the scrap pile of late.

"This... I don't understand any of this."

Wetlyn didn't look up, but tapped the map with one long nail. "In the Oldwood, things do not hold still. Places are not always where you left them. One might say that locations are not truly located anywhere in particular. It is not that they move, of course, that would be impossible. It is that they..." Her voice faded. "I apologize if my explanation is poor. The Oldwood is a place heavy with enchantment. It's nature conflicts with my craft."

She looked up at him now. "Witchcraft is, above all, a craft. It is about precision, as I have told you. It is about what things are, and how they function. The Oldwood defies this. Again, it is a place of enchantment. It is less about how things are, and more about how things relate to one another."

She sighed, apparently frustrated with her own explanation. "What is important for you to understand, is that I cannot show you a point on a map and tell you, 'journey northwards one day from here'. Perhaps it is best if I demonstrate."

She pointed now to one of the circled descriptions on the parchment. "Here. There is a swift flowing spring which is favored by the faeling creatures of the Wood. Many things connect to it." She drew her finger to several of the other items, some close, some far. "Once at the spring, it is a simple thing to travel to these other locations. An example." She tapped another circle. "Here, there is a wide glen. A stream runs through it, which is fed by the spring which I have mentioned. Starting at the spring, how would you find the glen?"

Atyr frowned at her, suspecting a trick. Clearly, the sensible answer was to follow the waters of the spring until they reached the stream, and then to follow that down to the glen. He looked at the line connecting the two circles. Along it was written, 'follow the sun'.

"This makes no sense. Follow the sun? The sun moves across the sky, at what time do I follow it? Am I supposed to believe that following the sun at any time will bring me to this glen?"

"You are to believe that, if you are to navigate the Oldwood. You, like I, would prefer it if following the sun would lead you Eastward in the morning, and Westward in the afternoon. And so it does. If it helps, you may think of it like this. In the morning, the glen is to the east of the spring, in the afternoon, to the west of it."

"If it helps I may?" Atyr asked. "But is it? Is it east at one time and west at another?"

"No. But following the sun will nonetheless get you there."

He thought for a moment. "Wetlyn, I've been in the Oldwood a few times with my father. We walked in, and we followed our trail back out. That was it. And he's spent much longer in there, days at a time. He's never mentioned things moving about."

"Of course. No place actually moves within the Wood, it is only you that moves through it. You may walk in a straight line, turn around, and walk back, and still find yourself exactly where you expect to be. The forest is navigable like any other place, especially at the boundaries. Perhaps your father even has a map. A map." She tapped the diagram on the table. "A conventional map, not one such as this, will take you quite satisfactorily from one point to another in the Oldwood."

"So then...?"

"You may navigate the Oldwood as you would any other part of the Brookwood, or of the world, but you will never find anything. There is, of course, a solid directional relationship between the spring and the glen. Let us say the glen is north of the spring. That may be true, and yet walking northwards will not take you there. You do not have to understand. I do not understand myself, which I dislike. You must nonetheless trust what I tell you, or you will find nothing which you seek."

Atyr shook his head. "Right, so from the spring to the glen, I just follow the sun. Right. To get back, do I walk away from the sun?"

"To walk between the spring and the glen, you follow the sun. Both ways."

"Again, that makes no sense."

"I agree. I have told you I dislike the Wood. Perhaps you understand why." Her brows raised for an instant, a brief break of composure. "It is above all else that I know, imprecise."

"What if I walked halfway from the spring to the glen, following the sun, and then decided to return to the spring. Would I still follow the sun?"

"No. At least, I do not believe so. Following the sun brings you between spring and glen. It does not bring you to either of them from other points. But I am not certain. I recommend against experimentation in the Oldwood."

Atyr was studying the 'map' again. Many of the lines had odd, whimsical descriptions. "Can this be right? To travel along this 'Sunlit Path of Many Flowers' to this 'Dark, Bedrock Cleft', I have to be sad? But if I am angry, I would end up at something called 'The Forge'? What happens if I walk along, sad, but then my thoughts turn angry?"

Wetlyn blinked at him. "I do not know. I have told you the Wood does not make itself sensible to my craft. I repeat: I would recommend against experimentation."

"It wouldn't so much be experimentation, as it would be not having complete control over how I feel at every moment of the day. Look, here it says that being thirsty on the path brings me to that same spring, which is convenient, but what happens if being thirsty makes me angry as I walk? Do I end up at the spring and the forge?"

"... Perhaps, for you, it would be best to stay off the path."

He shook his head. "Easily said, but the path seems to run everywhere." Lines ran outwards in a tangled spider's net of connections from the circle around the 'Sunlit Path'.

"Not everywhere, but many places, yes. The path is the favoured way to travel, for those who live in the Wood."

"I don't like this."

Her lips twitched for a brief moment. "Shall we consider which routes might best serve you?"

Until mid morning, Wetlyn showed him locations on the map, and described the relationships between them. Not everything on the map sounded nonsensical or filled with fae enchantment. For example, if one was at some place called simply 'Very Tall Stone' one could apparently just 'Follow the Path' to get to the next location. The only odd thing about it, was that the next location was labeled just 'Satisfaction'. Satisfaction of what sort, Atyr wanted to know? How could one walk to satisfaction? Wetlyn only shrugged, and reiterated her recommendation against experimentation.

It was, she explained, a very incomplete guide. Likely there were many routes more direct, and certainly there was an endless amount of other places one could go. Eventually, Atyr gave up on understanding, and decided, as the witch had urged him, just to trust in the map.

Together they found the simplest, swiftest routes of which Atyr thought himself likely to be capable. Many detours and extra steps had to be added so that he wouldn't have to, for example, travel from 'Three Small Waterfalls' to a place called 'Dryads' Clearing' by falling asleep under the full moon and then dreaming of dryads. Compounding the eccentricity of the plan, Wetlyn informed him it would only be possible to use the instructions on the map once he knew where he was in the Oldwood.

Entering it, he would have to wander until he found some location he could recognize from its description, and there was no way to determine which one that might be. It would be up to the Wood.

Leaving at least, sounded to be a simpler affair. From any point on the path, all one had to do was 'Follow the Path for a Day.' Alternatively, wandering aimlessly for long enough in the wood could apparently sometimes spit a traveler back out. By the time they were both satisfied with the possible routes out and back, he was more than ready for breakfast.

It was a simpler affair than the dinner the night before, though still among the finest meals he had ever eaten. He was interested to find that Wetlyn did her own cooking, bustling around the small area as efficiently as any Brookwood grandmother he had ever known. It should perhaps not have been surprising that after well over one hundred summers she had developed some level of culinary skill.

After breakfast, Wetlyn made clear that it was time he left, and led him to the door. Just beside it, on the low seat, he found his pack, his new tools neatly rolled in the oil cloth, and a fresh set of clothes in dark, rich greens and browns.

Wetlyn pointed to these last. "I thought these fitting garb for a Ranger. It occurred to me also, that your Unarmored Defense Ability might render spare clothing necessary." He thanked her, and she hurried him out the door, into the bright sun of the top of the spire.

He stood on the top step for a moment, then breathed out long and slow, and set himself down on the warm stone. The technical conversation, the lordly clothing, the uncomfortably perfect food, the wine, the fear of death, even a moment of the certainty of death, the confusion, the uneasy tension of the woman, the time in bed with her, her hands on his cock in the night... It had, he realized, been building in him like a breath long held, and now it tumbled free. It was a while before he collected himself and stood, setting off down the Spire.

He walked now in the sun, without fear of the trolls, or of the unearthly voice from the night before, and took no care to hide himself. He saw a troll, briefly. It loped onto the path ahead of him, and he froze, hand flying to a dagger, but it only glanced at him before slipping off silently into the boulders on the other side. He was warier again after that, and walked with bow strung and arrow nocked, but nothing else troubled his descent.

Back in his room at Gant's he emptied his purse onto the small table and counted out the coin. Twenty kips was still a solid handful, more than enough to supply his trip into the Oldwood, but less than a week ago he had been wealthy, by his counts, with four banners in his pocket. It was hard not to wince at the rapidly dwindling fund.

He thought for a while. His build site lay more or less along the route to the Oldwood: a convenient happenstance as he would like to stop there for a few things, in particular his weather cloak, as well as deposit many of the supplies he had picked up in town. After lugging the eclectic assortment around for a week and a half, it would be good to lighten his pack.

He decided as well that he would like to visit his parents before embarking. And they, less conveniently, were a day's walk to the west of Woodstead: the opposite direction. It would delay his start at least two full days, but he wanted to talk to his father about his experiences in the Oldwood before venturing in alone. A month ago, Atyr wouldn't have been so cautious, but now...

Looking at the small pile of bronze on the table, he considered. This was his last day with the room to himself. He could leave in the morning, sleep at his parents' the following night, be back the night after if he was swift, and then stay here again, with meals and a bed for only three kips. But then he would have two extra days of travel through which to lug all his possessions, now with the added burden of the tools from Wetlyn. It was tempting to just ask Gant to extend his private rental of the room two nights further, and leave what he could here, but that would cost him twelve kips. Not worth it.

Perhaps Kella would allow him to leave some things with her? He resolved to wait for her that evening and ask. He wanted to know how the conversation with Bird had gone last night anyway. He needed to tell her about Wetlyn's possible way forward, and his coming journey as well. Her and Pesky, he remembered. Where was that little sprite anyway? He'd hardly seen her the past few days.

With little to do until evening, he purchased some bread, cheese and ale from downstairs for two kips, and scurried back to his room. Coin spent easily and quickly in town.

He pulled out Kella's poem, 'On Rusted Road'. Reading it through several times, he began to feel the flow of the words more as she had spoken them. It was a bit of a puzzle, but he began to see how all the imagery fit together, and how the rhythm and rhyme were structured. Poetry had never held much of an interest for him, and so had remained mysterious, but there must be a craft to it, like anything else. He wondered how long she had practiced at the art; this was clearly not her first attempt.

He pondered idly over the lines, reading and re-reading in particular the parts about the rose and its thorns, an obvious reference to Kella herself, and how it had 'softly watched his dreams'. He wanted desperately to find some other meaning in it, some confirmation of something felt towards him, some hidden message. Poems often had hidden messages he had heard, but if this one did, it was hidden beyond his ability to find it.

Of course, she had been the one to kiss him. And, she had practically thrown herself into his bed, after all. Literally, actually, she had literally thrown herself onto the bed. Perhaps he should stop agonizing over the poem.

He lay for a while on the rough blankets, mind wandering aimlessly, pretending to himself that he was planning his journey, but really daydreaming more about Kella than anything else. His mind drifted also to Wetlyn, in both lust and guilt. He wondered if he ought to admit his past night's dalliance to Kella. Actually, he didn't wonder. It was obvious that he should; it had been a clear moment of weakness, of disloyalty. But he hated to think of it. It had been over so fast, the orgasm rolling through him almost before he could decide what to do.

He liked to imagine, that with a few moments more, he could have gathered the resolve to refuse the witch's pleasuring hand. Then again, how would that sound, when he admitted to having got naked into bed with her?

But, telling Kella was the gentlemanly thing to do, and he would do it. Fate could say what would happen then.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Bad Wine

The sun fell and burnt the trees atop the rolling hills beyond the town, and Atyr waited in the shadows that grew now long at the base of the knoll. Above him, the little path wound up through the stands of young birch to the Birdhouse. Ascending to catch Kella at the door would all but guarantee an encounter with Helliot, and at the moment there were few things he wanted to avoid more urgently. He envied Kella her inability to perceive the fiendish gentleman.

The gloom was deepening now, with all but the last traces of radiance hidden behind the trees of the surrounding Brookwood, the shadows running together and fading into soft pools of darkness. Through the white trunks, he saw the grey-robed figure descending. A soft glow of white darted around her. So that's where the sprite had been spending her days.

Atyr stepped from the shadow and walked up to meet them. "Kella. You've managed to resist murdering the little hanger-on. Well done." He smirked at Pesky. "It was hard for me."

"Atyr Bracken. You owe her your life, and she really has been a perfect lady to me these past few days." Kella smiled back. "If you can't be bothered to treat her with dignity, it's really no wonder she prefers my company."

Both Atyr and Pesky snorted. The sprite clearly held no illusions of herself. "Dignity is not something I have ever chased after." She landed and draped herself dramatically across Kella's head. "Life is too short to waste on virtue."

Kella strained her eyes upwards, trying to see the little sprite. "Aren't you immortal?"

"Death could lay me low at any moment."

Atyr sighed. "I have one more night with the room to myself at Gant's. I was hoping we could head there and catch each other up? I have a lot to tell you, and I'm eager to hear about how it went with Bird."

Pesky left Kella's head and zipped across to whisper, loudly, in his ear. "Are you certain that's what you want to spend your last night with a private room doing?"

Atyr rolled his eyes and tried not to glance at the young healer. Kella giggled. "I think that's a wonderful idea. Perhaps some food first, though? I haven't eaten since midday." Atyr wasn't sure whose idea it was which she found wonderful.

At Gant's they decided to grab a meal and bring it up to the room to talk. The old innkeep was as gruff and gloomy as ever, but there was less suspicion in those shadowed eyes now.

Kella had Gant bring out a bottle of some brownish-red wine. Atyr's meal was covered by the banner he'd laid down for his stay, but between Kella's and the wine, it came to four kips. He was determined to pay for it, but Kella flatly refused, going on about how it was her food, and her bottle, and how she had steady income, and did he have any at all? She even demanded, grinning, to know the exact contents of his coin purse, and when he finally admitted he had eighteen kips in all the world, she informed him that was just shy of four days' pay for her. Cheeks aflame, he slapped down the little bits of bronze on the counter, stared Gant in the eye, and tossed out two more, saying, "If you take my coin, there's another two for you."

The innkeep almost smiled at him, then shrugged at Kella, and scooped up the six kips.

Kella shook her head, rolled her eyes, shrugged back in defeat, snatched up her bottle of wine, and took off up the stairs, muttering loudly enough for all to hear. Something about, "... stiff-backed, stuffy old Brookwood boys." Pesky followed her up.

Atyr added a third shrug of his own, thanked the old man, and awkwardly collected the two full trenchers and pair of mugs. Gant wouldn't allow any of his glassware to be taken to the rooms.

"You're an impractical lot, you woodsmen." Kella was waiting for him as he entered.

Atyr settled his tenuously balanced load onto the small wooden table. "Let's just pretend it's important to me. I'm off to see my parents tomorrow, and if I have to tell them I'm lazing about town letting beautiful girls buy me meals, they're like to chuck me back out on the doorstep."

"First off, I was buying my own meal, or trying to." Her tone was disgruntled, but she was smiling. "And second, what a silly thing to care about. What if you'd had no coin, would I have had to go hungry for the sake of your pride?" She grinned. "And third, I'm not a beautiful girl. I'm a beautiful woman." She flounced down onto the bed and shook out her dark hair, looking every bit the affronted beauty.

"Well, I did have coin. Look, I know we're old-fashioned to you townsfolk." He looked aside at the wall. "Can we just agree on the third thing and drop it?"

She laughed. "Oh, it really doesn't bother me, Atyr Bracken. I just think you're silly. But yes, we've been dying to tell you about Bird."

Pesky jumped in. "That old woman was pretty coy with everyone. She was the least surprised of the three of us."

He made an encouraging face. "There's a story then, it sounds like?"

Kella pointed imperiously at the cups on the table. "First, the wine!" He handed her a cup, and she thrust the bottle at him. "As a woman, I am too weak. Open it for me, strong woodsman!" Her lips quirked. "Also, this cork is set really deep, I don't think I can get my teeth on it."

Atyr had to smile now as well, however grudgingly. Several giggle-filled moments passed, as they took turns trying to pry the cork free with his belt knife. Eventually, too much of it had broken off for the broad blade to reach any longer, and he had to pull out a small awl from among his new tools from Wetlyn. Between the two of them, they finally managed to jam what was left of the cork down into the bottle, spraying only a little on the blankets.

Atyr brought over the trenchers to the bed, and handed the apple from his to Pesky. That ought to buy them some few moments of silence. He hoped. As they ate, Kella began her story.

"I waited until the end of the day, when I usually leave for home, and then I asked her if she had a few moments, which of course she did. I never leave if there's really still a lot to do. Anyway, the first thing that really didn't go as planned, is that I had Pesky on my shoulder. She was going to whisper me advice as we went over everything with Bird. But as soon as Pesky started talking, Bird started glancing around, almost like she could hear! She couldn't really hear of course, at least I don't think so, but I know she really did know something was afoot right away."

Pesky looked up from her apple. "Oh, it's not the first time she's noticed me. Once people have met one of us, they seem to kind of get a feel for when we're about." She munched for a moment. "It's why I try to keep my distance."

Atyr nodded. "I noticed that the other day as well, when you were on my shoulder. Bird almost looked right at you."

Kella took a deep sip of her wine. "Ehk. It really tastes like someone poured ale and grass in here. Anyway, yes that was the first thing. I hadn't even really said anything yet, and already that threw me off.

"Then, when I was trying to explain the reason this was all a problem, she really got a bit angry, I think. At first, at any rate. She seemed to think you were being really obstinate, and standing in the way of letting me do something wonderful. 'He can deal with the fae, but not you?' were her words, I think. Oh yes, did you know she knew you were fae-touched?"

Atyr was testing his own wine. He pulled a face. She was right about the taste. "Oh. Yes, sorry, I should have told you. Bird is how I first found out about the mark at all, right on the day I woke up. She could tell it was there, even if she couldn't show how to look into it, or what to look for when I did."

Kella looked surprised. "Hm. Well, that was another thing that really caught me unprepared. Anyway, at this point, I was really starting to realize I knew less about this than anyone else involved: you, Pesky, Helliot, and apparently Bird as well. But eventually, I convinced her that I really didn't want to take Helliot up on his offer, and that it was a bad idea to get mixed up any further with some devil prince from the Inferno."

Pesky voice chimed. "Oh, you don't want to?"

Looking uncomfortable, Kella scrunched up her shoulders. "Well, anyway, that's what I told her. I really do understand its a bad idea, though." Atyr looked at her, sidelong. He wasn't convinced she meant her words.

It was quiet a moment, all three of them lost in thought. Peksy may actually have been more lost in the apple than in thought; it was hard to tell. Atyr had some more wine. It really was terrible. He cleared the taste from his mouth with some bread.

"Oh!" Kella began again, suddenly. "That's the other thing. My big, dramatic reveal, my one argument to make sure she really understood the severity of it all, was exactly that, that Helliot isn't just some 'Fae Man,' that he's a devil; a fiend from the Inferno. And do you know what her reaction was? Almost nothing! She said something like, 'Oh, well, isn't that surprising,' in exactly the same tone you might use with a young child who has just pointed out that their feet have got wet after jumping in the stream."

That was surprising to Atyr. "She knew?"

"Atyr, I think she did!"

"She did." Pesky's voice was certain.

Atyr drank some more wine, a large mouthful this time, ignoring the sour flavor.

"You know, I actually got that for myself." Kella squinted one eye at him.

He paused, cheeks full. "Mmm?" Swallowing, he continued. "Oh, sorry, the whole bottle?"

"Well, you paid for it so I suppose I can't really complain. But yes." She tapped her fingertips together. "We can always get more. But anyway, the end result of it all, is that Bird now knows as much as I do. Well, more, really. I guess. And, she's agreed that we'll wait for you to see what the witch might have to say."

"That's the part that I was worried about."

"Oh, yes, and that's the one thing at least that Bird seemed really surprised by, the witch in the old watchtower. Pesky thinks, and I really agree, that we might be hard-pressed to keep her away. She seemed quite interested. Disconcertingly so."

Atyr scratched his nose, and mumbled around a mouthful of food. "Tell her there are lots of big, hungry trolls up there."

Kella and glanced at Pesky. "I'm really not sure that would dissuade her.... Are there?" Atyr nodded, eyes wide and earnest, but she shook her head. "She's not one who's easily frightened. But anyway, what did the witch have to say?"

Pesky made some sort of small, grumpy noise, and flitted over to the broad window sill to sit, looking down at the street. She made a show of disinterest, but Atyr guessed she was still listening.

"Well. That's a whole lot. The short version, is that she doesn't have anything for us. Not yet. The long version is that... she might. And it's only a might."

He explained about her contact with the enchanter, and the possibility that there might be a way he could help.

Kella looked skeptical. "So, you have to travel what, five, six days just to get there, and then who knows how long you have to stay there, and then it's five or six days back, and we don't even know how this man can help, or if he even really can? And he lives deep in the Oldwood?"

"Well, not that deep in, I don't think. I'm not sure, it's... from what Wetlyn said it's pretty hard to measure distance in there."

"Well, however deep it is or isn't, it'll be nearly two weeks before you're even back, if not much longer, if you even make it out of there alive, Atyr. We all know the stories. And then, we might still have to wait to see what this witch comes up with, and on top of that, it might not really work at all?"

He looked unhappily down at his palms. "Look, I know it's not the best plan, but--"

"It isn't a plan, Atyr, it's a way to risk getting yourself killed. A plan has clear, achievable goals, and a practical path to accomplish them. This is really just gambling." She sighed. "I don't have a better idea though. If we're certain that I can't just--"

"You can't." Atyr cut her off. "Kella, you'd be bound to a devil for the rest of your life, and you'd be forced to help him, maybe for years."

She didn't meet his eyes. Her voice was quiet. "Bird could still pass her stake to me, and I could tell him I'm not interested. That's still by far the easiest way."

From the windowsill, a tiny voice came. "If you'll actually commit to that." Kella didn't respond, sipping sourly at her wine.

"Pesky, what do you think? Right now, my plan is to head westwards to see what else my father can tell me about the Oldwood, and then to go find this enchanter, and hope he knows how to do what we need. I don't trust Helliot not to twist things around and trick Kella the way he did me."

Pesky only shrugged. After a moment's pause, Kella spoke up. "I wouldn't have made the same mistakes you did, Atyr. I really do know my way around words." She let out a quick sigh. "But Pesky has relentlessly explained to me all the ways which it's really never wise to deal with age-old devil princes, even if you think you know what you'll do. She has been very convincing." Kella twisted her face to the side and caught Atyr's eye.

"Atyr. Wouldn't you take someone with you? I can't leave Bird alone, but maybe there's someone who could help you? An extra head, extra hands, you know? Just in case?"

"I have been in the Oldwood before, you know. A half dozen times, with my father."

She was surprised at that, and it showed. "Really? Is it is fae as they say? Would your father go with you again?"

He lifted his hands, gesturing indecisively. "Well, when I was there, it seemed much like the rest of the Brookwood, only older. You know, just an old wood. But, I think there's more to it." He dug around in his pack and pulled out Wetlyn's map and laid it on the bed between them.

Kella scrutinized it intensely. "None of this makes any sense."

"I know. But look, I'll show you." He walked her through the basics of Wetlyn's explanation. Her expression grew more and more incredulous with each passing moment.

Pesky came over as he showed Kella the meaning behind the tangled diagram. "Well, I really am curious just how you got so into her good graces that she did all this for you. And the tools as well. Couldn't help but notice you came back down with some new clothes, too."

She drifted in front of him, and he felt she might have a few, pretty good ideas about what sort of thing might have put him so into the witch's favour. He hoped she would keep those ideas to herself. It wasn't a conversation he wanted to have with the little sprite present to add commentary.

Fortunately, Kella was more interested in the map itself than in how he had acquired it. She asked many questions, and he found, unsettlingly, that he didn't have answers to most of them. Wetlyn's instruction was, he already knew, full of missing and partial information, but hearing the questions from the mouth of another made it all so much worse. Still, it was the only lead they had, and time was passing.

"Atyr, again, can't you take someone with you? Tal would go if I asked him, I'm sure. He really has nothing else to do; he just spends his days wandering around town, babbling away to anyone with a spare moment. But he's not useless, he knows his way around a scuffle. His father is the chief guardsman, and when we were growing up he made sure Tal would be ready to follow him. Only, I think Tal would rather cause rowdiness and confusion in town than settle it. But anyway, I know he'd go with you. Would you take him?"

Atyr considered. "I don't know, do we want to be letting more people know about all this? You can't just say, 'go with my friend into the Oldwood, he has to talk to an enchanter there, no reason!'"

"Atyr, you don't know Tal. I really can."

He shook his head. The only people he would possibly want with him in the Oldwood were a few of the better woodsmen he'd grown up with. "I might ask my father if he'll come. Maybe a friend or two from the Brookwood might be willing. But I don't know if any of them can just leave for two weeks with no notice."

"You're both forgetting something." Two heads turned towards Pesky. "It's a fae place. We live there, and we make it fae around us. Atyr can see them. Can Tal? Can your father, or your friends?" She flew up and tapped him on the nose. "Anyone you take with you will be wandering around sightless. Half of these routes." She landed on the map between them. "Half of these are fae routes, and your companions won't even be able to follow you along them. And if the worst happens, if some faeling beast attacks you, any mortal you take will be blind to it. How will they help you then?"

She flew up above and looked down at them both.

"No, when Atyr goes into the Oldwood, he'll be going alone."

=========================

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Bridge to Leffing's Town

Shortly after Kella left, and Pesky with her, Atyr realized he had never asked about leaving her with all his extra supplies and tools. He considered trying to find her home, but that seemed beggarly at best. If he asked her at the Birdhouse in the morning he'd have to weather Helliot's badgering. In the end, he headed downstairs to see if Gant might hold his things for a few days.

He found the old man out on the main floor, clearing tables as the crowd wore thin. "Gant, do you have a moment?" The innkeep frowned, but gestured for Atyr to follow him as he brought the tower of trenchers and bowls and tankards back behind the counter.

"What can I do ye for this time, Bracken? Need the room longer?"

"No, the opposite, actually. I'm hoping for a quick visit to my parents' before I head back to where I'm building. I've planned poorly though, and I've a pile of things I'd rather not lug out and back a day each way. Could I trouble you to store them for me?"

"What all ye got?" Gant's eyes began to narrow. "I won't hold nothing untoward, I'll say that."

"No, nothing like that! Extra provisions, a few fasteners and other supplies. Tools. That sort of thing."

Gant grunted. "How long?"

"Today and tomorrow. Maybe another day, but I'm hoping to be back here by tomorrow night. They live a day away down the West Road, up in the highlands. Just a quick visit."

Sunken eyes looked up at him. "Alright then. Got 'em now?"

"In my room. Give me a few moments to sort my things, and I can bring them down. Erm, how much would it be?"

"You come back tomorrow or the next night, Bracken, and I'll keep your things. You stay away longer we can talk about coin. Fair?"

Atyr smiled. "I like to pay my way, where I can."

"A kip then, if it sets you at ease."

Atyr handed over the bronze coin, and Gant caught his eye. "Oh, and Bracken. Yer heading west? Ye'll be passing the stone bridge towards Leffing's Town. Clear out the trolls there, ye might find somat worth the trouble."

Atyr knew enough by now not to blurt out anything about trolls, but he couldn't resist a little experiment. "Hmm, which bridge was that?"

Gant sucked his teeth, squinting. "Which bridge is what, now?"

"The old bridge across the Rorrend?"

Gant squinted, sidelong under questioning brows. "I've never been out to yer family's place, Bracken. If it's directions you're wanting, I suspect ye know the route better than I."

Atyr smiled to himself. "Thank you Gant. You've been a boon to me these past two weeks. I'll hope to see you the night after tomorrow."

The innkeep grunted something that sounded like agreement, and headed back to the floor. "Ye can leave your things behind the counter when ye've collected 'em."

Trolls under a bridge now, was it? That sounded more achievable than rooting Wetlyn out of her tower. More desirable too. He'd see what Pesky thought when they were on the road.

***

He slept early and rose early, when the sun was still a hope and a haze over the trees to the East. He was packed, he was ready, but getting on the road with the little sprite proved more of a task than he had anticipated.

Once again, she had left him alone through the night. He guessed she had gone home with Kella, as seemed to be her pattern of late, but he didn't know where exactly that was, aside from the general quadrant of town. He couldn't very well go door to door along the western edge of Woodstead, waking people at dawn and asking where the Thorn family lived.

So he waited once again at the bottom of the trail up the knoll to the Birdhouse, grumbling to himself about luckless fae. He might as well have slept in late. It seemed he wasn't going to get an early start either way. The sun was full above the horizon, and the dew was beginning to dry when Kella and her newly-inseparable companion dropped onto the main road from a side path, and came walking down towards him, shadows trailing, pink and soft.

The pair walked up and stopped. Kella's face glowed in the amber light of the early morning. It was good to see her, though it was only hours ago they had parted. Her smile was a reminder to hasten back from his trip home to his parents' cabin. She wished him a good journey, and he promised to return swiftly.

There was a moment of awkwardness as they parted, when Pesky started up the path to the Birdhouse with Kella. Atyr had assumed the sprite would be leaving with him, fused to him as she had been over the past two weeks, but Pesky said she couldn't think of any reason he would need her help to talk to his own parents. However, once he mentioned the trolls under the bridge, and the prospect of 'adventure', she swiftly abandoned the healer.

Atyr wasn't certain he felt any need to actually go troll hunting after his one previous experience with the creatures, but he had reasons to want Pesky along. Namely, a list of questions. Two questions, really. He wanted to know what it was that had put so much tension between her and Wetlyn. And he wanted to know about that night a week past, when she had strode like a storm up this very knoll, rain streaming from her star-made form, an angel out of legends, come to chase away a prince of devils. Somehow, that still hadn't come up. He wanted to know.

"I can't believe you haven't even kissed her yet." Pesky was babbling as they left Woodstead behind. It was unsurprising. "Not even a chaste little brush of lip on cheek." She rolled on, darting to and fro across the path as she chattered. "Mind you, I know whose fault it is. You're like a log wall, when it comes to romantic abilities. Dummy."

Atyr blinked. He realized suddenly that it had been several days without anyone calling him a dummy. It should have been a refreshing break, but something about the return of mockery bought a small curve to his lips.

"And it's doubly-dumb since she's already kissed you and has been basically throwing herself at you ever since. It's not like you'd be risking rejection." She sighed theatrically, and threw herself into a backwards fall through the air, catching herself just above the ground. "I will never understand young men, I fear..."

The land rose in rolls and swells as the road wound westward through the hills of the Brookwood. The dusty track cut between the steeper hills, and trundled up and over the gentler. Every descent left the road just a little higher than it had been on the first side of the hill, and so travelers, without noticing it, would gradually find themselves out of the dense shade of the lower wood, and among the shorter, sparser trees of the Brookwood Highlands.

From time to time a sunny ledge of rock protruded from a hillside, and invariably, a narrow footpath would peel off from the road to pay it a visit. All travelers share a love of such scenic spurs, whether they admit it in public, or to themselves, and these deeply-worn side trails are the proof of it. Late morning found Atyr and Pesky resting a moment at one such overlook, enjoying the warm smell of juniper in the sun.

The hills rolled down and away from them, evergreens and hardwoods mingling in splotches of light and dark. Distant now among the rolling green, Woodstead was still identifiable, the knoll of the Birdhouse poking just above the roofs of the town, and beyond, the spire rising, small from this vantage, with the small, dark line of the old tower above it.

"It looks so tiny from here." Atyr kept his voice conversational, but he had a goal in mind.

"It is small, dummy. You may be used to your Brookwood isolation, but Woodstead is barely more than a village. Someday, I'll drag you to a real city. Then we'll have fun!"

"Mmm, maybe we will. But all of it, I mean. Look at the spire. It takes half a morning to climb it, even if you don't have trouble with the trolls, but it looks like no more than a few rocks, from here. The tower might as well be a dead tree, for all that it's five stories in reality."

Thin wings flicked once. It was quiet on his shoulder.

"Pesky?"

Silence.

"Pesky, could I ask you something?"

"If you want to talk about that bitch of a witch you can just say it instead of trying to lead me there with the cleverness of your conversation. What?"

"Ah. Right then." So much for subtlety. "Well, if we're being upfront about it all, I'll just ask. Why do you two hate each other so much?"

"We don't." She took off now from his shoulder and flitted a pace away, to land on a twisted little tree growing from a crack in the rock. The poor thing was probably older than Atyr, stunted and wizened by its cramped roots.

He brushed idly at a fly that decided to begin buzzing around his ears. "Well, you don't like each other though. Why not?"

Pesky kicked her legs. "She's ungrateful and greedy. She takes more than she ever gives."

"She's given me quite a lot already, unasked. And she's promising much more."

"And what has she taken from you, Atyr?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing witty came to fill it. The fly became intensely interesting to him. Perhaps the topic would change if he ignored it.

"Hey dummy, what is she getting out of this?"

This conversation was not traveling down the road he had intended. "Pesky, I think it's important I understand why my patron and the person who is our current sole hope seem to want to throttle each other."

"And you do understand. I don't like her. She doesn't like me. That's why we wish each other ill. To the extent that we do."

"Yes, but--"

"Atyr, you are how old?"

He blinked. "Uh, twenty summers, full. Why?"

"And your parents?"

"Pesky, what--"

"How old are they? Your Parents?"

"They're over two score, my father is a bit--"

"Their parents?"

"Look, I understand that I'm young by your measures."

"How old are your grandparents?"

He shook his head. "The three living are all around three-score and ten. My mother's father would have been a full four score now."

"And their parents?"

"I get it, Wetlyn is fateful old, I'm young. It just happened, alright? It's not as if I--"

"That's not where I'm going. I don't care about whatever happened, and I don't want to hear about it. Answer the questions, dummy, I've a point to make."

"Fine. My great-grandparents would all probably be four and a half score at least, and their parents would be well over a hundred, and--"

"Wetlyn has been fae-touched since the time when the parents of the parents of the parents of your parents were born. She's done many things over that length of time, and I've known her for all of it." She hopped off the little tree, headed back for the main road. "If you want a list of everything that has happened between us, you can ask her. I'm sure she has one memorized which she could lay down for you in meticulous, precise detail."

Atyr stood a moment longer, looked across the expanse of wooded hills at the tiny tower far off. It was an answer of sorts, he supposed. A lot of history.

The day wore on past the height of the sun. Atyr ate a bit as they walked, not wanting to break for a midday meal. The road had curved and wobbled its way to the rocky banks of the Rorrend, which tumbled and crashed in its narrow bed. Further down, out of the highlands, Atyr knew it became a wide, slow-flowing water that drifted sleepily between and around the low hills of the Brookwood, but here was where the river got its name. The waters were angry and loud, and the spray scented the air for a great distance to both sides.

"Do you feel we need to deal with the trolls?" Atyr asked. Shortly, they would come to the place where the road split, one leg continuing along the northern bank and gradually fraying into more and smaller paths and trails, the other leg crossing the old bridge; the road to Leffing's Town. His parent's home lay on one of those small, frayed ends on the near side. There was no need to cross the bridge.

Pesky stopped, glaring at him. "I didn't tag along to help you deal with your parents, you know. If we're skipping the trolls, why am I here? I could be having a lovely time making fun of you with Kella, and aggravating Belzy."

Atyr squinted at the sun. "I know, I'm sorry. Now that we're here, it just feels like a pointless risk to take. It's not going to help us with Bird."

"But there must be a reward. Coin would help, wouldn't it?"

"Coin is always a help, but I'm not sure how much of a boon it is here. I doubt I can spend it in the Oldwood."

"You might be surprised."

He was. "Really? Are there... are there people in there? Mortals I mean?"

"Anyone can walk in you know. Sometimes it's leaving that's the tricky thing to do."

"Huh. I had no idea. Well, anyway, Gant didn't mention a reward, I think he just said I 'might find something'."

"Ooooooh, we are going after those trolls!"

"Because we might find something?"

"Exactly!"

He breathed deep, filling his lungs, and held it a long moment. Then he let it out, his resistance escaping along with the air. "Fine. But you better be more of a help than you were with the last trolls."

"Hey, they got the drop on me! This time is turnabout."

The old bridge toward Leffing's Town was a tall, solid structure. The supports were uncut boulders piled in the roaring water, heavy and high enough to resist even the fury-white floods that came smashing down through the highlands with the spring melt. Rough, uneven steps were cut out of the mass of rock on each side, ascending to the narrow, railing-less walkway of stone slabs that crossed the deadly foam of the Rorrend below. Over all, a slick of mist and moss clung.

Whoever it was that had built the odd bridge, and why they had chosen to place it here of all places on the river, were mysteries. The answers were as lost to time as was the knowledge of who Leffing may have been, and why the old town was named for them.

"Where do you suppose the trolls will be?" Atyr was perched among the pines on the hill above the bridge. Looking down, he saw nowhere that might reasonably hide the creatures. No caves, just the soft, loamy, wooded hill, descending to the clear space of the road, and then the bridge, tall and uneven amidst the frothing waters.

"Oh, that's easy. They always live under the bridge."

He laughed. "Just like child's tales, huh?" He pointed down the hill. "Not this bridge though. It's nothing but a roaring torrent, once you're down there."

Pesky raised a tiny brow at him. "I will bet you anything you like they are under that bridge."

"Want to go scout?"

"I do not."

"Fair enough, but will you?"

"I will not."

There was no point trying to convince the little sprite, he knew that by now. He strung his bow and started stealthily down the hill. Halfway, he looked around. Pesky hadn't followed him. Luckless little fae.

At the edge of the woods, he halted, searching for any sign of the trolls, but there was nothing. He drew a long breath, wondered for a moment why the Fates had decided this should be his path in life, and crossed out onto the road.

On the packed dirt, nothing could be read. The jumbled mess of wet scuffs and ruts were mostly days old and completely illegible. It occurred to him he didn't even know what troll prints looked like. He tried to conjure an image of their feet, but in the chaotic chase on the spire, that particular detail hadn't stuck in his mind. He presumed they were somewhat humanoid. Perhaps broader? Certainly unshod.

He drew closer to the bridge, looking for any sign of bare feet passing on the mist-soaked road. Leading up to and around the stair to the bridge, he could find nothing, but his eye, long trained in the Brookwood, caught upon a mark a dozen strides up stream, on the edge of the steep bank: a place where a small rock had slid in the damp silt, cutting a short brown gouge through the moss.

Scanning swiftly about him, he moved silently to the spot and looked down. The trolls on the spire had been clever things, stealthy and graceful for all their bulky ugliness, and judging by what he saw, these ones were no less so. Nevertheless, faint signs could be picked out on the rocky slope. A stone slightly askew, a section of moss worn away: something came this way often.

Creeping forward, bow at the ready, he followed the signs down towards the foam-spattered boulders that held the bridge. It seemed Pesky had been right. But where under the bridge they might lay, where they had found a secure haven from the killing waters, he could not tell.

Something flashed across his vision on the bank above him, and he crouched low, whipping his bow around to train on it. Pesky. Fae-cursed little... She flitted down to him.

"Under the bridge. Told you."

He motioned for her to be silent, and moved forward again. Still, nothing revealed itself, neither troll nor hiding place. As the bridge drew near, he lay the bow carefully on the ground, and drew a dagger. The rocks beneath his feet were a slick, treacherous ledge, sloping hideously downwards. The waters raged white just below. To slip would be to die.

The massive rocks of the bridge were close enough to touch, when he finally saw the opening. Between two of the piled boulders, a shadowed gap was visible. Footlength by shuffling footlength, he came up to it, pressing his back to the misted stone. He looked down again at the death that lay below, ripping at the rocks as if to devour them, and pushed the thinking part of his mind away.

Without a breath leaving his lips, he leaned forward until he could peer into the dark crevice. And there they were. As easy as that. Two trolls, one male, one female, and both asleep amid a pile of bones and shredded clothing and possessions. A ragged wisp of grey pulled itself out of the earth along the path he had found, and sped into him, bringing the familiar, invigorating warmth with it.

He leaned back from the crack and gestured silently to Pesky, holding up two fingers, pointing and then shrugging, eyes wide. What do we do?

Pesky shook her head, pointed at him, and shrugged as well. You figure it out. She held up her hands, wide apart, then pointed to herself and held them very close together. Sure, she's very small. Very small now. They would have words about that later, if he didn't end up a meal either for trolls or the river.

Atyr leaned forward to look in on the trolls again. He was fairly sure he could take one of them before they woke, ideally the larger male, but that would still leave him with one enraged troll to fight in a tiny cave above waters that would shred him in an instant upon the many stony teeth of their bed. Again, he buried the thinking part down deep. He clenched the hilt of his dagger until his fingers turned white.

Then he leapt.

Down he came, and down came his arm, and deep sunk the dagger into the neck of the sleeping troll. Through the spine and down at an angle into the chest it sank, until the hilt slammed hard against the flesh of the beast. A noise came from it, and it moved slightly, and that was all. The second troll stirred, and Atyr ripped the long knife free. A burst of Experience came away with it, and he could tell this time it was more than just the usual warmth, it was the rushing sense of accomplishment he had felt before when he had gained the first Level.

No time for that though, the other troll was rolling to its feet now. She backed away from him across the bone-strewn floor. She began to circle, and he moved with her. She maneuvered until she had her back to the entrance; whether trapping him or enabling her own escape, he couldn't say. She let out a bellow, long and loud.

He lunged, and the dagger slashed at her face, but she ducked back, stepping almost out of the little cave. He thrust now and missed again, then slashed, freshly-honed edge biting into the grey skin along the collarbone. The troll screamed at him, and a grip like stone unyielding caught him by the upper arm. Both her hands clutched the arm with the blade, crushing into his flesh. Then she twisted and yanked at the limb with blinding speed, and Atyr was free, sore but unharmed. The troll held only the mangled sleeve of his shirt. Both troll and man seemed equally surprised. That arm should have been wrenched from its socket, and quite possibly from his body. Unarmoured Defense.

The powerful sensation of the new Level was bubbling expectantly in him still, and a fearlessness took him as he remembered the ability. Everyday garments provide protection from injury. He grinned, and danced forward, feinting with the blade, and she dodged and swung back, but he was drawing the second dagger now, and in a slashing flurry he threw himself upon her, and she backed away, out onto the slick ledge. She grabbed again for him, but he was out of reach. Then he was slipping in once more and his blades caught her twice on her thick, outstretched arms, and she stepped back another pace.

Her feet slid, and she fell. Powerful hands scrabbled frantically for a handhold, but the raging torrent ripped at her legs and pulled her below and she was gone.

The grey troll-form of experience came swiftly to him from a point barely a score of paces past the bridge.

Pesky flitted forward and looked at him, head tilted. "Well, that certainly went better than the wolf."

Atyr grinned at her for a moment, but the exhilaration of combat was swiftly fading, and as it passed it left only shaking knees and a sickness in the stomach. He sat down heavily on the slick dampness of the cave floor, beside the still corpse of the first troll. The cave was a putrid horror around him, but he wasn't ready to stand up again. Not just yet. His breath snuck out of him in jagged bursts, like the stuttering strokes of a dull saw.

Staring down at his shaking palms, he noticed the sensation of the grey glow emanating from the fae-mark on his arm. The memory of the rushing, restorative wind he had felt blow through him at his first level sprang vivid into his mind. He needed that restoration now, as much as he had then, even if he was physically unhurt.

"Hang on. I think I gained another level. Give me a moment to complete it and I won't feel such a mess."

He looked down at the symbol on his arm, bare now with the missing sleeve of his shirt, and let himself drift down into understanding. The grey circle was complete once more. The red circle was just slightly below full, he noticed. He had been injured enough by the troll to use some fae-healing then. He'd need to keep that in mind. Unarmoured Defense was not immunity. He looked deeper into the mark, finding his Class indicators--

"Atyr!" Pesky's voice was loud and weird, and his mind ripped itself free of the symbol as his head snapped up.

A second male troll stood silhouetted against the entrance, swatting at the little sprite as she darted at its face. One large hand made contact, and her tiny form flew out of sight outside the cave.

"Pesky!" He scrambled to his feet, grabbing both daggers. The troll fled, vanishing from the crack. Atyr rushed forward and paused at the door. No sign of the troll. He crept out on to the ledge, keenly remembering the fall of the female into the waters, and the swiftness with which her death had come. He shuffled forward along the moss-slimed stone, searching for either Pesky or the troll, but saw neither.

Then the weight of the grey creature dropped onto him from above, smashing his body face down on the rock. Hands grabbed him and lifted him and threw him back down onto the stone once more. One of his daggers when skittering out of his grip, and he slashed blindly with the other, cutting only air.

Then he was sliding, and he let go the second dagger to grasp in desperation at the rock. He caught himself, and felt the cold water tear furiously past his ankle, swinging his body up and against the stone. The troll was there, watching him, waiting for him to slide down into the torrent and disappear.

Then there was a flash of white in the creature's face once more, and it startled, and bounded up the slope batting at the little sprite. Atyr scrambled back to the ledge. He spun, looking for a dagger, but found neither of them. But there! There was his bow on the ground. He ran to it, heedless now of the pounding rapids beside him, and seized it. He drew and let fly, and the arrow caught the beast in the stomach.

It screamed at him, and charged, and batted aside the bow and swung a huge hand, raking across his chest. His shirt and vest came away in shredded ribbons, but his skin felt little more than a stinging slap. He yanked free his small belt knife and drove it down into the forearm that reached for him. The troll bellowed once more, and fled from him, climbing and leaping up the side of the bridge as if it had been flat ground.

Atyr nocked an arrow, drew again, and loosed, but the dart bounced of the rocks beside the scrambling beast. A third shaft he sent after it, and caught it in the back of the ankle, and it fell upon the bridge, screaming and dragging itself forward. Casting about him again, he found one of the daggers, caught in a crack in the stone. Seizing it, he ran up the bank, and climbed the stairs to where the troll crawled now across the narrow bridge.

The monster backed from him, then lunged as he approached, before falling back to the stone. Crippled and bleeding, helpless before him, the human-like form of the troll became more obvious, and Atyr hesitated, but for a third time, he pushed his thinking mind down within him and away. He sheathed the dagger, and drew his bow once more.

His fourth arrow he sent deep into its back, and into its heart, and it lay still on the wet stone of the bridge.

The summer air against the bare skin of his chest was cooled by the mists that were driven up by the ravenous current of the Rorrend below. He sat there, with the power of the river rushing under him, and the body of his foe beside him, and he stared down into that white water and let his mind return, and he lost himself for a while in thought.

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Dicks, Dice, and Whisperskin

"Thank you, Pesky." Atyr looked up at her. "Thank you."

She preened. "I'm losing track. How many times have I saved you now?"

He coerced something similar to a smile onto his face. "Can I ask; why are you small? Sorry, that's an awkward way to put it. What I mean is, that night with Helliot, on the knoll by the Birdhouse, you were like an angel, terrifying, and... Why do you need me at all, if you can do that?"

Pesky balanced on tip toe along the edge of the stone, oblivious to the whitewater death below her. Wings, what a gift. "Hmm. Why don't I just turn into a big, scary angel and crush the trolls myself?"

"Well, not an actual angel, obviously, but you know what I--"

"Sprites are as much angels as we are faeries. As in, we're not either one of those things, and neither one is real, but faeries and angels are what people call us when they see us."

"... Angels aren't real?"

"It depends."

"Let's not do that whole thing again. Look, I've just learned that fae are everywhere, and trolls are real, and they actually do live under bridges, and witches are real, and I'm in the middle of a deal with an actual prince of devils, but you're telling me angels, angels specifically, are a myth?"

"Like I said, "angel" is just a word humans use for Sprites. But we're not heavenly beings, sent from the skies to do battle with devils."

"Huh." He backtracked mentally. "Fair enough. What I really want to know though is, why are you small like this now? Or, in the middle of a fight with three trolls?"

"Let's talk about your penis."

He choked on his own breath. "I'd... rather not?"

"I'd rather do. I want you to look at that dead troll, get your penis all hard without touching yourself, and still without touching, I want you to cum thick, gooey, sticky white ropes everywhere. Can you do that for me?"

"Fates take me Pesky, that's the most depraved thing anyone has ever said to me." He shook his head, scrunching his face up in revulsion.

"Can you do it?"

"No, of course I can't luckless do it!" He rubbed his palms over his brows. "I get what you're on about, though. This is Helliot's glass-in-your-eye thing all over again, right? You could have just said it was like that. Fates and fae, Pesky. Shit."

"It's not like that." She hopped onto his knee and looked up at him. "You could have done the glass thing, if you really wanted to. It was just a matter of hating to do it with all your being. But this? Even with my Voice all over you, you couldn't do what I just said." She cocked her head at him. "At least, I hope you couldn't?"

The weirdness she laced into her words had its odd, erotic effect on him, but she was right. What she had described was something he just couldn't do. No matter what the stakes were, he would never be able to. It wasn't a matter of just not wanting it.

"Look, I get it. But still, did it have to be about my dick?"

"Do you have another part of you that can get way bigger in certain situations, but not in others, and which you cannot control?"

Put like that, he couldn't fault her analogy. "... Fair. So what sort of situations make you get like that? Erect, if you will."

"Ew, don't talk about me like I'm your cock."

"You just made tha--"

"Its mostly when we have to stop fiends from the inferno from ravaging the fae realm."

"The fae realm? Like the Oldwood, and places like that?"

"No, dummy, this place. This world, all of it. It's ours, isn't it?"

Atyr was about to protest that he felt like it was more the realm of mortals, but he shut his mouth. A conversation for another day. "So, you turn into a tall, not-angel thing, made of light, with wings, whenever you have to chase devils back to the inferno?"

"Not just devils, but basically, yes."

He looked at her. "Pesky, it sounds a lot like you're just telling me you're actually an angel."

"No, because again, they're not real, and neither is heaven. Sprites are real, and you mortals like to mistake us for angels, which are something you just made up." She shook her little head. "And you wonder why I call you a dummy..."

They sat for a while, and Atyr's thoughts and his gaze drifted back to the body of the troll beside him on the mist-slick stone of the bridge. "They look a lot like humans, Pesky."

"They're not."

"They look it though. And they're not dumb, they stalk and hunt like humans. They were herding me on the spire, you know. They have hands, and they walk on their hind legs. Part of the time, anyway. What animal does that?"

"Birds? They're just faelings, dummy." She buzzed impa-tiently into the air.

"They're not at all like birds, Pesky. They look like people."

She bobbed her head side to side, considering. "I suppose they sort of are people, in a way."

He let his gaze drop slowly to his palms. Blood from the trolls was still smeared across them. He tried to rub it off on the wet stone.

Pesky continued. "You know, because 'That which ye eateth, your bread and your meateth, Ye soon will become from your head to your feeteth.'"

Atyr's lips pursed, and he tried to maintain his state of philosophical gloom, but a childish grin forced his lips apart. "Hah. Haven't heard that one since my mother stopped feeding me. Suppose I should get over it, huh?"

The sprite crossed her arms and grinned back. "Would you have felt worse if they had been people? People that lived under a bridge, eating unwary travelers?"

Atyr tilted his head. "Well, put like that, I'd probably feel a hero about now."

"Great! Then be a hero and complete that Level so we can loot their cave, already!" She pointed at the pulsing grey glow on his bare arm. "Do you know how to do it?"

He winced, and offered tentatively, "Yeah, uh.... Wetlyn showed me?"

Pesky's grin didn't fade, but it did become somewhat toothier, he thought. "Oh good. I'm sure she gave you a tho-rough walkthrough."

Atyr nodded, not meeting her eye, and let himself sink down into the symbol once more. The full, grey-glowing circle of his Experience drifted up to him, and as before, he accepted the offer it extended. Yes. The ring emptied and then refilled slightly, a little less than a quarter of the way. This time, with hardly a wound on him, the cleansing, healing restoration of his hurts and ailments was less pronounced, though still an exhi-larating sensation. He looked to his Class. Rogue had caught up to Ranger this time; they both sat at Level 1. Perhaps they would alternate?

Next, he sought out his Attributes. It took him a moment to bring them into focus, but then the meaning came to him. Once again, three glowed more brightly than the rest. He had the choice of Dexterity 14, Perception 11, and Courage 10.

Courage was interesting. Could he really nudge the little mote that fuzzed hesitantly about over to Courage, and just... become instantly braver? It felt somehow like a dirty trick, like stuffing your shoes to seem taller. But he wanted to try. What young man could resist the allure of being able to effortlessly become the bravest hero around? And it was the lowest of the three, it needed the help...

He forced himself to consider the other options. The way his life seemed headed, Dexterity would never be a wrong choice. Avoiding injury, aiming his arrows, struggling with trolls... That last seemed to be more common of late than he could ever have expected. It was already the highest among all his attributes, but perhaps focusing on his strengths could be a good strategy.

And finally, there was the middling choice, Perception. As soon as he turned his mind to it, he knew it was the right one. Less glamorous than Courage, and less adventurous than the opportunities Dexterity teased him with, it was nevertheless the practical choice. He was going into the Oldwood, and if he was to get out again, it would be due to his wits, not his guts or his arm. From what Wetlyn had told him, missing a tiny detail could be the difference between success, and eternal wandering in that enchanted place.

He nudged the mote over, accepted its offer, and Perception ticked up to 12. He looked around, trying to sense whether or not he was more aware of his surroundings. Everything felt about the same...

Lastly, he saw, he had a new ability. Would he get one every level? If they all shaped up to be as amazing as Unarmoured Defense had proved to be, he certainly hoped so. He focused on the idea in his mind, and it clarified.

Whisperskin - Lighter and more minimal clothing, armour, and gear assist with stealthy movement.

Atyr frowned slightly. That certainly was a bit of a let down after the implausible boon of his first ability.

"Are you done? What did you get?" Pesky was flitting eagerly in front of his face.

"Well, first, I guess I should tell you about last time. Before, I leveled up in Ranger, raised my Vitality, and got an Ability that honestly probably saved my life today. It's called Unarmoured Defense, and it lets my clothes deflect injury from me." He gestured at the remaining shreds of his shirt. "Bit hard on the shirt, but better that than my arm getting ripped off or whatever else."

Pesky did a backflip in the air. "I hope you brought an extra!"

He laughed. "I did, I did. Hopefully the other one won't have to stand between me and being maimed.

"Anyway, this time, Rogue went up to Level 1 instead--" He stopped. "Will they just alternate back and forth?"

Pesky shook her head. "No, you have to earn your Levels. If you spend three weeks tracking deer in the woods or some boring thing like that, you can't expect to gain a Level in Blacksmithing, even if that's your subclass. It reflects what you do."

Atyr was shocked. Not at the contents of her answer, but at its usefulness. "Pesky. I'm impressed. That was a real, clear answer to an important question. Thank you."

She blew him a kiss and zoomed in a loop out over the violent water.

He continued, calling to her as she flew. "I put the mote into Perception this time. Seemed prudent. And... well honestly the ability I got is a bit shit, really. It's called Whisperskin, which sounds promising, but basically it just says that I'm sneakier if I'm not all weighted down with armor and bulky clothes and a pack and stuff. Which... well that's just how being sneaky works."

"They're not all astonishing. Many are almost mundane. Presumably, you'll be even sneakier than you would otherwise be."

"I assume so, otherwise how is it special, right? It does go well with Unarmoured Defense though, since both incentivise not wearing armour. Not that I own armor but, you know, now I won't ever have to worry about getting my hands on any." He stood. "Should we go look at that cave? Gant said there might be something worthwhile here."

He looked grimly down at the corpse of the troll. "I suppose I ought to drop him into the river, so no one trips over him. Mortals can't normally see them, even dead, right? The trolls?"

Pesky shook her head. "Not normally. Faeling are like us, you need to invite them."

"How do you invite a troll? By getting eaten?"

"Pretty much, I would imagine, yes."

Whatever angst Atyr had initially felt over stalking and slaying the three trolls was swiftly fading. He pushed against the heavy body, sliding it over the edge of the stone slab and into the torrent below. It vanished immediately and did not resurface. He though then of the coin he'd found when he tried to move the body of the wolf, and the small vial with the healing concoction that had pressed into his palm when he had touched the other troll. He asked Pesky about it.

"Oh yes. That'll happen. I already told you that."

"Things just appear in my hand when I touch something I've slain?"

"Sometimes. If they're needed."

Atyr thought for a moment. "Well, I can see why I needed the little potion; I was nearly dead, it felt. But the banner I absolutely did not need. In fact, I didn't need it so much I turned around to head back to the Birdhouse to give it away."

She was already flying away from him, towards the troll's cave. She called back, "Perhaps that was needed!"

Now there was an uncomfortable thought. He watched the soft glow of her tiny form drift away under the bridge, and considered. How much of all this would not have happened, if he hadn't found that silver coin and decided to turn back towards Woodstead? Would he have ever returned to the Birdhouse? Met Helliot? Wetlyn? Would he be headed to the Oldwood now? He couldn't imagine so. Would he have ever talked again with Kella, or would she forevermore have been just some healer he had met once briefly, an awkward memory not often recalled?

It was disconcerting, thinking that something might have needed all this to happen. Or someone? His eyes tracked the path Pesky had taken. Her? To get him to go on an adventure? Or Helliot, to get him under an agreement? Who? Or was it the Fates themselves that needed it? Shaking his head, he headed down after Pesky. Those were thoughts for a quieter moment.

Outside the little cave, he searched around for his other dagger, but it was nowhere visible. He looked at the rock face where he had dropped it, and the tearing rapids below. It would be gone for good.

He stepped inside. He hadn't fully noticed the stench before, with the thrill of the fight in him, but now it caught in his throat like a rotten slick of death. Pesky was tiptoeing carefully among the bones and detritus, poking her head under and searching for whatever might be found. "There's a small pouch under there. Sounded like coins." She pointed to a pile of rags and fresh-looking bones, and went off hunting for more interesting treasure. Atyr screwed up his face as he poked the remains aside with his dagger, uncovering the rough-woven purse. He tipped it out. Three kips, and a set of dice. They looked to be carved from antler. He slipped the kips into his own purse, and left the dice. They were nicely made, but gambling was for over-soft townsfolk with more coin than sense.

He looked at the first troll he had slain, and experimentally laid his hand upon its cooling skin, but nothing pressed back into his palm. Well, if he hadn't needed anything atop the bridge, it stood to reason he didn't need anything below it.

Between the two of them, they found another four kips, scattered about, and an assortment of broken, grimy oddments. There was a small knife there. It was poorly made and dull, but Atyr slid it into his pack nonetheless. There was always a use for a blade. Aside from that, there was not much more in the cave. Trolls, he supposed had little use for human crafts. Likely, the packs and possessions of unlucky travelers were flung out the narrow cleft into the foaming waters below.

Atyr stood to go, but Pesky's voice caught him at the entrance. "Hey Dummy, you can't leave these! These must have been what the innkeep said you would find!" She was standing on the dice, one foot on each of the little ivory cubes.

"The dice? Really? Why the dice, are they special?"

"Ooooh, yes. Oh yes they are." She danced a bit, prancing from one to the other. "Enchanted!"

"Magic dice?" He let his eyes grow wide, dramatically so. "What do they do?"

"No idea! It's a miiiistery."

He had rarely seen her this delighted. "Well, can't say I have a use for dice, magic or not..."

She froze, balanced on one die, other foot in the air. "What?"

He adopted a stern face, trying his hardest to look and sound like his own father. "Dice are dangerous, Pesky. More, they're for those who won't do honest work, or who have too much time and nothing useful to do with it."

"Atyr, please! Atyr you have to take them! They could do anything. Please!"

He laughed, shaking his head. "Pesky, I'm not going to leave enchanted anything to rot and crumble in a troll cave until they get washed away in the spring flood." He picked them up and examined the pair. They looked utterly unremarkable to his eye. "I've never even touched anything enchanted before, I don't think. You're sure that these are?"

"Oh, oh I'm sure. Oh, these will be fun!"

He smiled at the little fae, and pocketed the dice. Perhaps someone in town might have a use for enchanted gambling. Tal seemed the type, and a gift there might not be poorly placed.

The afternoon drew slowly on, and they left the main road for a side trail that grew ever smaller and less maintained. Even in the shade of the highland forest the sun began to heat the air into a muggy soup. The flies were happy, swimming lazily through that soup and circling Atyr's head; unwilling to land, unwilling to leave. Unwilling to do anything but hum in his ears.

Pesky too, had been a buzz in his ears, chatting endlessly about the dice, and what sorts of things they might be capable of. She had come up with an impressively extensive list, from the expected; maybe they give you better rolls than usual; to the unexpected, if you gamble alone, maybe coins will appear if you win; to the implausible, maybe they change the weather based on your roll; to the worrisome, what if you die if you roll two ones? Atyr resolved not to tinker with the dice until someone could tell him what they actually did.

Eventually, however, she had tired of listing the many fantastical possibilities of the little set of bones, and drifted off. Atyr hadn't noticed when she left, but he found himself now walking alone through the hot stillness of the afternoon, with only the flies for company. His thoughts drifted to what he would tell his parents. The truth, of course, but how much of it? Certainly, there were several portions of his tale that he could never recount in front of his mother. Even the less salacious parts though, would they believe him? And if they did, would they be frightened for him? But it would be truth he gave to them. Brackens were no liars.

As the sun descended and stretched the shadows long, he found his little companion waiting for him on the thin branch of a beech sapling, bouncing up and down on the flexible sprig.

"Atyr! I had an idea. Will you put your shirt on?"

He stopped. With the heat of the afternoon, he hadn't bothered getting out the other shirt to replace the shredded one. "Hi, Pesky. I suppose so? Out of character request for you, I have to say." He unslung his pack. "Any reason?"

"I want to test something with your Whisperskin ability."

"Ah, right. Hang on then." He dug through and found the shirt, pulling it on over his sweat-soaked hair. "What's the idea?"

"Sneak! Bring your pack. I'll watch." Atyr couldn't help but remember other times she'd told him she wanted to watch. He grew uncomfortable.

"Alright..." He shouldered his pack, and feeling a little foolish, like a child playing at some game of hiding, he crept off into the trees, moving as quietly as he knew how, slipping through shadow and behind trunk. If he was stealthier than normal, he couldn't tell it. He moved off until he was out of sight of the path, about twenty paces, then turned and came back, emerging in front of Pesky once more.

"Well? Was I enchanted with faerie stealth?"

Pesky rolled her eyes. "That is not at all how enchantment works, and faeries aren't real, and also no, I think you were just regular sneaky. You are very sneaky though, well done." She pointed. "Do it without the pack."

He dropped the pack and headed back into the wood. Unburdened, he thought maybe his footsteps were a bit muffled, but he wasn't certain. He tried some heavier steps, and slid his foot through some drifted leaves. Yes, it was quieter than it should be, though still loud enough to draw attention. Interesting. Well, even a small boon could be important, at the right instant.

Back on the path once more, he found Pesky was not done with him. "Shirt back off, and try again." Oh. Oh that's where this was going.

"Pesky, I don't think it works that way, let's just--"

"It's called Whisperskin, dummy, not Whisper Clothes. We need to figure this out. You've been shirtless all afternoon, just try it."

Atyr glowered at her, but pulled his shirt back off. She whistled, and he shook his head.

"Oh, try the boots too, just for good measure."

He shrugged. It was a good suggestion. Then, barefoot and shirtless, he went out a third time. A few paces into the shadows of among the trunks, he stopped. He was almost silent. He could feel the forest floor crunching and cracking softly underfoot, but it came to his ears almost as a memory of a sound. He wasn't actually noiseless, but he was closer than a human had any right to be, moving across such deep detritus. He didn't go further, but turned to grin at Pesky.

"This is incredible! It must be the boots, I can barely hear myself!"

She grinned back. "Yes. Excellent. I knew there must be more to it. Look at your arms!"

Atyr glanced down. Where the shadows crossed his skin, he seemed somehow harder to see. Almost dimmed, and blurred at the edges, as though dusk had come early. It was a subtle effect, but its potential advantage was immediately obvious. He looked up at the canopy above, laughing. "What a day this has been! I feel like a fae thing, silent in the trees, with clothing like armor. Pesky, I don't think I've ever said this before. I know I haven't because I've hardly ever felt it before. But thank you. For this." He touched his fae-mark. "Really." He stooped for his boots, and began to pull them back on.

She smiled sweetly back. "Your welcome." The smile sharpened. "Now do it naked."

He stopped, one boot halfway on. "Really? I don't think that's necessary. I'm already basically silent, we know it works." He pulled the boot the rest of the way on, and grabbed the other.

"I mean it. I think you should try it naked! Maybe you get even quieter." She bounced off the branch to hover in the air. "Plus, it'd be fun for me."

She was right, of course. He needed to know the parameters of the ability, but... but what? No argument he marshaled held together for more than an instant, even in his own mind. He slipped the boot back off. He glared at Pesky. "Fine. Fine." The pants followed.

"Oh, those are new." Pesky was looking at his fitted small clothes. "Trying to impress Kella with your urbane, townly attire?"

He rolled his eyes. "Wetlyn gave them to me." Staring straight at the sprite, he watched her stiffen at the name. She turned away.

"They should come off as well."

"Right. Fine." Stripping swiftly out of them, he stood naked in the humid air of the trail. "Here goes." He turned to slip into the trees.

"Nice butt."

"Fae take you, sprite." He stepped into the shadows of the wood once more.

And actually stepped into them. Where the shadows lay across his bare skin, it was as if they melted into him. Or perhaps it would be better to say his skin melted into shadow. He was still there, and when he forced his eyes to focus on some part of him, he could see it clearly, but as soon as his gaze slipped away, it was as if his body slipped away as well. He was vaguer somehow, in a familiar way he couldn't quiet place.

"Wow." Pesky's voice behind him was startlingly affected. "It's like it's night where the shadows touch you."

He looked down at himself, naked among the trees, and realized she was right. Where the sun shone, his skin looked as normal as it ever had, but where he crossed into shadow, he was obscured as though by the darkness of night. The shadow itself didn't deepen, but he deepened into it. It was fascinating.

He spent a long while playing with light and with shadow there, darting naked from trunk to trunk on silent feet, like a spirit of night come early. At length, it was Pesky who called him to task.

"Hey dummy, it's great watching your lithe, supple shadow body running around through the trees, but if you're about done playing sexy tree boy games, maybe we could get this trip back on track? We already did the fun parts, and I want to get back to town. We have dice to play with!"

Atry had no intentions of letting her play with the dice, but she was otherwise correct. If they were going to make his parents' house by nightfall, they had some swift walking to do.

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

With Family and Without

To a woodsman who had spent all of his twenty summers since he could walk, learning to creep and stalk and hunt in the Brookwood, Whisperskin was intoxicating. It took every bit of willpower within him to put his clothes back on and walk down the trail, as mundane as ever in the past he had. All he wanted was to run, silent as a shadow, through the trees along the road, but they had already dallied and delayed, and he hoped to make his parent's house before full dark.

The trail they had taken from the main road grew thinner and wilder, and the spurs leading off of it less frequent. Atyr knew where every one of them went, and which families lived along each. In the end the pair didn't manage to beat the sun, and the flies and the summer scents which had filled the heat of the day fled as the air grew cool and still.

Atyr led them right to the last turn of the little trail, now no more than a root and rock studded footpath, and turned to ad-dress his companion in the deepening shadows of the wood.

"Pesky. This is my family. They are simple folk, and I care for them deeply. If, in any part of your little fae heart, you can find the restraint to not sow mischief while we're here, I will be grateful to you for a season. I promise. We can have as much fun as you want once we've left, but please, please let things lie peaceful while we're here." He looked at her, brows drawn together. "Please."

Pesky rolled her eyes and pirouetted several times about his head. "Sure!"

Atyr wasn't sure. "Please? I want you to say it to me truly."

"I promise truly to Atyr the Dummy, that I will be on my best behaviour at his parents' home."

"Perfect. Thank you."

He led the way down the path, turned the corner, and the little cabin came into view dimly through the dusk, roof and walls all neatly scaled with crisp wooden shakes. A great bay-ing went up, echoing all through the wood. He grinned, striding forward through the little gardens, tall and lush with summer vegetables. Straight to the door he walked, and threw it open, and threw his mouth open as well to shout his greeting, and--

A violent storm of brown fur and slobbering jaws and skidding paws knocked him back through the door and pinned him to the ground, rolling and mawing at him and prancing on his chest. He laughed, loud, and a long, sloppy tongue caught him full on the teeth.

"Father!" He called out. "Come save your eldest son from your ill-trained beast!"

From out of the dark woods came tearing a second great hound, howling as loud as the first, and behind it a young man two years Atyr's junior, and looking much like his taller, stockier duplicate. A moment after, an older woman came to stand in the doorway, smiling broadly, and then, from behind her, a rough-worn man poked out his head. A grin split his face, and he rushed forward, booting the huge dog playfully aside, and lifting Atyr up by the shoulders.

"Atty! You're home!" He squeezed Atyr tight enough that the young man half wondered if his Healing circle would be depleted. "Your mother and I have been wondering every day when you'd be by to pay a visit!"

His mother came down now from the doorway and pushed her husband aside roughly to steal a hug of her own. She laughed, holding him close.

"Oh, it's so good to see you. I've missed you more than you can know." She drew back. "Your cheek! How did you hurt it?"

He touched his face, and felt a long scab there, half-healed already. It must have been smashed against the rocks under the bridge, but he hadn't felt it at the time. He tried to think of a response, but a hound took him out at the knees, and he stumbled sideways into his father.

Behind them, Atyr saw a devilish grin on his younger brother's face It was the sort of grin that would worry him on the features of anyone else, but on Cei, it was the only expression that didn't. His family and the two dogs all whirled around him in a chaos of howls and yelps and questions and jumbled news, none of which he tracked. After a while, they shepherded him towards the door of the cabin, and the whole tangle funneled inside. Pesky, true to her word, managed to stay silent and distant throughout.

The warm smells of years of cooking and living and dogs surrounded Atyr like a favorite blanket. Stumbling in over the threshold, he saw the table and chairs and hearth and beams and cracks and foot-smoothed floorboards and knew every bit of it as well as he had ever known anything. He had forgotten over the spring and summer what it was like to know a place, and know it truly.

They buffeted him to the table and crowded round and brought him water, and set tea to boiling, and his mother sent Cei scrambling for 'the best food you can find, at a pinch.' Then finally all was settled and calm once more, even the hounds, and a conversation that was actually intelligible was able to begin.

"Will you be here long?" That was every mother's first question to a returning child.

"No, I can't, I'm sorry. I can stay the night, but I'm needed back in Woodstead. Tomorrow by dark if I can, or the next night at worst."

His father thumped his shoulder jovially. "Ah, you can't do that to your mother, two seasons gone and then not a full day here? Two nights at the least!"

His mother spoke again. "There's many in the hills here would like to see you back for a few days." She looked at him slyly. "The Fallowfelt's youngest has been asking after you, they say. Bril, isnt it? The pretty girl with the golden hair? They say she's mighty curious about you building, so young as you are. Asked if she might see the site, and how far you've got."

Cei snorted into his mug and pulled a face at Atyr from across the table.

Their father broke in. "With someone to accompany her, of course." He cast a look at Cei, who assumed an expression of perfect naivety.

Atyr flushed slightly. He smiled at his mother. "I know what you're up to, mother dearest. It's uh..." He paused, reddening further, and mumbled, "there's a girl in Woodstead. Why I need to get back. Part of it, anyway..."

All three of them began talking at once, his mother looking intensely curious, his father looking well-pleased, and Cei singing more than talking, something ribald, Atyr assumed, though he couldn't catch the words. He caught none of their words, as it happened, and once the table quieted again, he drew their attention to him.

"I'm actually here to ask Father everything he knows about the Oldwood. I have to go there, straight from here."

His father's face grew serious. "The Oldwood? You're going alone? If you can wait a week, I can come with you, or maybe the Pelten's boys could go sooner, or--"

Cei broke in. "I thought the reason you had to leave was because your lovely love in Woodstead can't bear to have you gone?"

Atyr noticed Pesky perk up at the jest, but mercifully, she collected herself and drifted back to the cooking area under the little window, where she was distracting herself by poking at various objects.

"Anyway," Cei continued, "I've been in the Oldwood as much as you have, and I could leave tomorrow, couldn't I?" He looked at his parents.

Their mother's voice was calm, but worried. "You've been in just as much as Atyr, yes, which is hardly at all, and always with your Father. Which is exactly why he's worried about Atyr going without someone more experienced. The two of you going solves nothing." She looked at their father, who nodded soberly in agreement.

"You can't just wander in. I know when we've gone it's been an easy trek in and out, but it isn't always. It can get odd in their. Fae, I would almost say, if I were the sort to say it."

Atyr took a deep breath. "It is fae. I'll say it. It's fae. Listen, a lot has happened since I left. It's complicated. It's a really long story."

His father's voice was concerned now, and a shadow of a danger underlaid it. "This long story have anything to do with the blood on your pants and the cut on your face and the killing knife on your belt? Don't think that blade wasn't the first thing I saw. That's no woodsman's tool you're wearing."

Atyr nodded, and the room went quiet. Pesky drifted from her corner, watching closely now. He breathed in again, made sure they were listening, and took them through everything that had happened to him in the past two weeks. It was mainly the same expurgated version of the tale he had spent hours preparing for Kella on his hike down the spire. With her, he hadn't made it far before she had derailed the story utterly, but now he had a chance to make those rehearsals worthwhile. His family was a rapt audience, listening almost entirely in silence. Some other parts of it he left out as well; the details of the mark, and his new Abilities. He played down the danger and viciousness of the trolls. He left the dice unmentioned; in fact, he had forgotten them entirely. His own role in the story became more passive and less adventurous. Atyr wasn't above braggadocio, but it wasn't for with family.

There was no open disbelief, there were no demands for proof, no probing questions. Just three sets of eyes; his father's unsettled, his mother's more so, and Cei's wide and eager. Three sets of eyes, and three nodding heads.

When he came to the end, with the bridge trolls dispatched, there was a long silence. To make clear the story was over, he added, "And then I came here. And... here I am." The quiet continued a moment, until his mother broke it.

"Kella seems a bright young girl, and clever. It's a pity you can't remember her poem, I'd have liked to hear it."

"Oh, I think I actually have it written down, somewhere in my pack."

She smiled. "Actually, why don't we save it? She can read it to us when you bring her to visit."

Atyr's eyes widened, and he forced them back down to size. "Oh. Um, yes, right. Yes definitely." He grinned, heart tripping over itself.

It was quiet again a moment. His father spoke up. "Well, if the poem is to wait, I'd like to see this map." Atyr nodded swiftly, and began digging for it in his pack. His mother drag-ged Cei away protesting, and put him to work helping to make, 'a decent meal for your brother's one night here.'

Atyr and his father went over and over the map, and over it again. It swiftly became apparent that the older man had little to add to Wetlyn's instructions. Nothing on the map was familiar to him, and until this point, he had no more believed in the tales of faerie magic than had Atyr.

What Atyr's father did have, was a wealth of experience, and more knowledge of the mundane aspects of the Oldwood then most woodsman could boast, if anything of that wood could be truly called mundane. Even he would admit that there was something about the lay of the land there that made it hard to keep one's sense of direction, that walking north could become walking east in no time at all, while noticing the error could take half a day.

They poured over the diagram again and again, with the old woodsman probing at Atyr's assumptions about what routes seemed best, pointing out where some nonsensical task might be harder or easier than it might sound, and adding a much needed layer of honest woodcraft over the whole thing, which had been left entirely out of the witch's advice. All that taken into account however, Atyr found himself at the end of it wondering if he had gained much that would be of use in that enchanted place, or if he had trekked a day in the wrong direction for little more than familial comfort.

But familial comfort, he found, was worth any delay in this moment. He had forgotten the gentle pleasure of being secluded in the deep of the Brookwood Highlands with only those who knew him best. And he had never known, until this evening, what a privilege it was in this world to say something and be believed, flatly and without challenge, merely because he was the one to have said it.

Supper was a warm affair, and the chatter soon drifted from witches and worries and enchanted woods to the pleasant nothings of old memories and of new gossip. Atyr sunk into the hard wood of his seat and thought he had never been so comfortable in his life. The small, tallow candle burnt forgotten and untended, and ran brightly and tall, before putting itself out in a smokey mess of its own making.

His parents hugged him and hugged him again, and made him promise three times not to leave in the morning until they had properly provisioned his journey. Then they hugged him once more and stepped away into the small side bedroom where they slept.

Cei waited a moment after the door shut, then groped his way through the dark, hunting up a second candle stub, and setting his strikelight to it. It flared up, smokey and puttering, and Atyr saw that grin once more. His brother's whisper was fierce and eager. "You are telling me everything, Atty."

Atyr spread his hands. "I have told you everything." He paused. "Everything about what?"

"Oh big brother mine, I know you like no one does, and you have been keeping more secret than I can even begin to guess." The grin widened. "Hush a moment. I'll have it out of you."

He walked quietly over to the chest that held his things against the wall beside the hearth, and rummaged through it a moment. He stood up and thrust a bottle half-full of something dark at Atyr. Atyr took it, and Cei looked at him a moment, thoughtful, then ducked back into the chest and pulled out a second bottle, this one full. Cei jerked his head at his older brother, and headed out the door of the little cabin. Atyr moved to follow, then stopped, glancing around for Pesky. She was gone. He shrugged. A long as she stayed quiet and distant, he was a happy man.

His younger brother lead them a short ways from the home, down the familiar little footpath to the old split-log benches set by the swimming hole of the small brook. In silence, Cei gathered some dry pine needles and cones, and with the last remains of the candle, soon had a merry little fire going in the stone ring on the bank. He reached for the half-full bottle, and pulled out the cork, tossing it into the flames. He took a deep swig, and handed it back to Atyr.

"Your turn."

Atyr chuckled softly, and drank deeply. It was woodsman's wine, and a good one, sweet on the tongue but with a hot bite to it. And strong. He sat on a bench. "This is good."

"Pelten boys have been brewing it up this summer. First attempts were so bad even they wouldn't drink them, but they've been figuring it out fast." Cei took another gulp. "They reckon next year they might have it good enough to sell in town. They're already getting two kips a bottle here in the Highlands. But," he squinted at his older brother and thrust the bottle back. "Tell it."

Atyr shrugged again, not yet feeling the effects of the drink. "Tell what? There actually isn't that much more to it." That was mostly true, as it went. Everything he'd left out had just been fat, the bones of the story had all come clean before supper.

"Tell me everything you kept from our parents. You only keep secrets when they're big, Atty. And I'm going to hear them." That grin, that fiendish grin.

Atyr laughed again, low, and stared down at the swimming hole, watching the firelight flicker on the rounded peaks of the little ripples of the surface. He decided he would tell his brother all of it. But even with Cei, he would need a little help.

"Alright, you got me." He held out a hand for the bottle. "I'm going to need this to start working first, though."

Cei's brows drew up. "Hah. Knew it! Big secrets." He leaned over. "Did you kill someone after all?"

"No! No, not that, just..." Atyr looked up into the night sky, smelling the pine burning, watching the sparks drift up into the dark above them. "Let me figure out where to start."

They sat for a while, quiet, the only sound the cool night breeze through the pines and the pleasant popping of the little fire. Cei stood, abruptly. "Well, if you're not talking, I'm going swimming."

He ditched his clothes on the bench, and flipped wildly into the water. "Hah! Cold!" He came up laughing, shaking water out of his hair. "Toss me that bottle. You can open the other if you're staying dry."

Atyr shook his head, laughing along with his brother, and stripped as well, slipping quietly into the water. They floated around, swimming a bit, shivering in the cold, drinking the sweet wine to feel warm. They talked of times past with family and friends, and of plans for the future, and when Cei might come out to help with the cabin build. They laughed and splashed and emptied the bottle. Atyr scrambled up the bank to grab the second one.

Rummaging through his clothes in the wavering light for his knife to pry free the cork, he heard Cei's voice from behind him. The words were getting slurred now. As were Atyr's own.

"I don't believe a luckless word of what you told our parents, you know." Atyr stopped, and turned, and Cei continued. "Fairies, witches, trolls... Fates Atty, devils and angels? Really? Angels?" He laughed where he floated in the water. "Ready yet to tell me what you're really up to?"

Atyr set the bottle down unopened. "It's true, Cei, I swear it. All of it. And more besides."

"Oh, what, a whole troop of elfen knights that only you can lead into battle? Will you slay a dragon next? Are the bards already singing of your mighty deeds?" The younger man shook his head, the laughter swiftly dying.

"I didn't think you'd lie to me, Atyr. Not here, like this." He turned away in the water. "I wouldn't have guessed you'd be so good at it."

Atyr felt as though everything he had accomplished since he left home had turned to sudden slime and rot inside him, dripping down to mix with all the worries and problems he had created, all one now, a pool of filth in his gut. If there was anyone in this world whose trust he needed, it was his brother's. His voice was soft when he spoke. "It isn't a lie. I wouldn't ever lie to you Cei. I wouldn't."

"You're just so good at it." Cei turned back to face him. The devilish grin was gone, the expression flat. Neutral. "I still almost want to believe you."

Atyr stared at him, throat tight. He was grateful for the uneven light of the fire. It hid the sudden wetness of his eyes. He recalled another conversation, filled with disbelief and mistrust, just a few nights ago in the room at Gant's.

"Hey, shit-dick. Catch." He chucked the bottle underhand into the water. His brother ducked, flinching away from the splash, and Atyr, already naked, faded back into shadow and was gone.

Whisperskin was less striking in the dark; there was almost nothing to see. The low fire was dim and didn't reach far enough into the shadows of the surrounding trunks to illuminate his bare skin. He moved through the darkness like a fae shade, silent and unseen. Rounded the little pool, the soft sounds of his bare feet on the forest floor stifled into the memory of an echo. He saw his brother peering into the light by the fire where Atyr had just been.

Cei shrugged, and picked up the bottle. Atyr heard a quiet mutter. "Fine. Lie to us and leave. Just like sister. Fae-cursed shits."

That hurt. Being compared to Moranna like that. Atyr kicked a stick into the water, not four paces from his brother.

Cei spun. "Atty?"

But Atyr was already rounding the bank of the swimming hole to the far side, where the dark lay deepest. He sunk back into the gloom, noiseless as the moonless sky above, looking at his brother's back. He slipped into the water. There was a splash when he entered, he could see it, but it forgot to make a sound. Or, if it remembered, his ears forgot to listen for it. He slapped a hand hard on the water and faded instantly back into the black shadow of the bank.

Cei whipped towards the noise. "Atty, what are you playing at? If you're going to leave just get on and leave."

Atyr slid from the blackness and moved forward into the flickering glow of the fire, where its dying light still glinted on the water. He knew how he must look, materializing from nothing, patches of his skin alternately lit fire-bright and vanishing into soot-black smudges of night. He saw it in his brother's wide eyes.

Cei moved away in the water until his back pressed against the muddy roots of the steep bank. Atyr waded to the center of the little pool. He stood silent, fire and night fighting wildly to colour his skin. When his brother's voice came, it was quiet and subdued, and there was a fae look on his face that Atyr had never before seen. "Atty? Is it all true then?"

In the end, he started at the beginning, with the voice, and the cut, and the Kelpie. It was the same story all over again, but this time, Peksy's voice was no longer 'odd and fae', it was the true voice of the sex found in all things, and Elatla was not just a beast he had escaped, she was a luscious, slithering seductress that devoured him and still begged more. Wetlyn was no more an odd, austere, old woman, she was the perfect result of a century of carefully sculpted beauty, with eyes of amethyst stone, and she played now with him long in her soft hands.

But it was not all sex which he added back into the telling. The trolls too, got their fair share of frightful combat, in gruesome detail, as did the wolf. And, given the recent demonstration, there was no reason to keep quiet his new Abilities. Even the magic dice made an appearance in the story full-fleshed.

And Kella. He dwelt long on Kella. She was the through-line of his tale as he now told it, and in every scene she appeared, as a thread tying each moment to the next, a poem and a whisper that collected the scattered verses and sang them into a thing that could be understood.

When he finished talking, they were dried and dressed and drunk and the fire was dead, and it was cold and the night was old. The sky was threatening to lighten into dawn, and their heads hurt.

Cei said it was time to sleep, or else they wouldn't get any, and stood up to leave. Atyr sat still on the bench, looking at the hints of ruby glow in the dark smear that had once been a fire.

He spoke softly. "How is she? Has there been word?"

The younger man stopped, unsteady on his feet. He sat back down beside Atyr. "Nothing. I don't know." The fragile quiet of pre-dawn hung in the air, almost ready to break into something bright and loud. They didn't speak for a moment.

Atyr tried again. "Nothing at all?"

"Nothing. Mother has written. Two, no three letters now. Father even made the journey north but they chased him away from the door." Cei looked at his older brother. There was a grin on his face, but it was the false thing he painted there when the real one wouldn't come. "Week or so later one of the Wilts brought a letter. More of a note. Said it was from her. It was in her hand. I don't know what was in it, but Mother cried and Father burnt it and they won't talk about it. I don't think she wants to see us again, Atty. I'm coming to accept that. Our parents too, I think. They don't talk about her at all the past two months, since that note."

Atyr didn't have anything to say, but he hugged his brother and pulled him to his feet, and they both pretended they didn't see the tears in each other's eyes.

They stumbled back to the cabin and rolled out their mats on the floor by the hearth and fell swift asleep, miserable in mind and miserable in body.

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CHAPTER NINETEEN

Again

Atyr's parents were good people, and they were kind people and honest, but they were not merciful to their sons when the harsh light of morning gouged bloody streaks across the eastward sky, and the first birds screamed out their hateful songs to shatter the blessed stillness of night.

They bustled happily out of their room, and took no care to stifle their laughter, or to hush their chatter. They were gathering things and piling them on the table, with thuds and scrapes and clangs. His mother lit a thin-stick fire and began frying some foul meat or other. The brothers lay as long as they could in regretful heaps on the floor, as though by pretending to sleep they might actually achieve it. But it was not to be, and Atyr grudgingly hauled himself to something almost like vertical, and stumbled over to help. Cei muttered a string of increasingly creative curses into his mat, but eventually dribbled himself across the rough boards to join his older brother.

Their mother clapped her hands briskly at them. "Well, are you hungry? I can't imagine you can be thirsty!" She looked meaningfully at the still-besotted pair. Across the room, their father chuckled to himself, and slapped something hard onto the table with a crack like a whip, then swung open the door and strode out into the bright morning, slamming it shut behind him. Atyr jumped and wished he hadn't.

His eyes slid over to see what object it was that had made the lighting flash through his head. It was his father's great bow. Did the man still think he was coming along to the Oldwood? Atyr had thought he had made his father understand that only the fae-touched might follow the paths he would walk. He looked at the rest of the table through squinted lids. Foodstuffs, travel gear, arrows, and a snarl of assorted little items were scattered about. He couldn't carry half of this...

"Ho! What's this?" His father's voice came loud and sudden from outside. Atyr squeezed one eye shut and tried to force the other to look out the little window into the hateful sunshine. He could make out his father's back a little ways across the gardens. He was talking, his hands moving. Guests. Atyr's stomach twisted dangerously at the thought, and he slumped down into a chair, hiding his face in his arms.

His mother looked up. "Oh, visitors, it sounds like! Isn't that lovely." She patted Atyr's head where it lay among the chaos on the wooden table. "Such lucky timing, catching you at home."

Atyr lifted his head, peering up at her. Behind her, he noticed Cei was back on his mat, a wet rag draped across his eyes. Good idea. He lay his head back down.

The door popped open again, and his father stomped back in. "Well look who I've found in the front garden!" Atyr tried to find the manners to stand up and greet the guests, but he was afraid any motion of his head might send his stomach into full rebellion.

His mother's voice came now, alarmed. "Fate and fae! Is that a faerie?" Now Atyr's head shot up. Light filled his eyes and he shut them against the blindness, but he heard, clear and ringing, the bell-like chime of Pesky's voice.

"Actually, I'm a sprite. Faeries aren't real."

"Aye, a sprite she says. The sprite, in fact. From Atyr's tale last night. Pesky!"

"Well!" His mother's voice was breathless. "I never thought in all my seasons I would see-- It's very nice to meet you Pesky. You seem to have played quite a part in keeping our son safe."

Atyr tried again to pry apart his lids, but they refused. Sightless, he spoke into the room. "She played quite a part in putting me in danger, more like. You can see her?"

Pesky answered first. "Oh, Atyr, can they see me. They can very much see me." Realization hit him, and he carefully lay his head back down on the table. If only he could have died of sour blood, alone on the road, in peace, with none of this ever having happened.

"Fates." His mother's tone was softer now. "Drink some water, will you?" A wooden mug nudged against his elbow. He grunted something like thanks.

His father's voice. "It's all true then? All of it? Faeries and devils and all?"

Atyr started, and managed to get both eyes open, halfway at least. Had they not believed him last night?

"Look at his cheek, Uret, it's healed!"

"Who are you all talking about?" Cei was sitting up, and looking unhappy about it. "Is someone here or not?"

"Cei," said their mother evenly, as if sprites dropping in for breakfast was a typical Brookwood occurrence, "This is Pesky, from Atyr's story." She gestured politely to the little sprite. "This is our younger son, Cei. I believe he had a merry little reunion with your friend Atyr last night."

Cei looked around, blearily, and closed his eyes. "Who in Fate are you talking to?"

Atyr looked at his parents. They were bewildered. "He can't see her." He shot a quick glance at his brother. "You can't, right? No little white faerie dancing around?" He pointed.

"You're all gone luckless crazy." Cei stood and staggered across the room. "I'm stealing your bed. Wake me before Atty leaves." He vanished into the bedroom and the door swung shut behind him. Atyr considered whether he ought to go explain how exactly it was that their parents could see the little sprite this morning, but there was no reason to add to the poor boy's misery.

Pesky jumped into the silence that followed. "Most people can't see me. It takes a... special moment." She smirked at Atyr. "It all has to 'come together' just right. It can be 'hard' for some people. Atyr was very 'hard.' Weren't you Atyr?" He just groaned. "Wouldn't you say it 'came hard' for you to see me?"

Atyr covered his eyes with his hand. They would never figure out what she meant, at least he hoped not, but he couldn't help hating the little fae right now. He ignored her, and spoke to his parents instead.

"You didn't believe me last night, then?"

"We did, Atyr." His mother's voice was gentle. "We really did, only..."

"There's believing, and then there's believing." His father walked over from the doorway. "We believed you last night, true enough. We knew you wouldn't tell us tales, make up a whole story like that, only..."

"Seeing it all is different," his mother finished.

Atyr nodded, eyes still hidden.

Pesky couldn't help herself. "Yes, 'seeing it all' really is something." Atyr let his head fall back onto the table with a thud. It hurt.

***

It was just after midday when Atyr found himself finally on the path back to Woodstead. Cei was with him. And Pesky of course, though she was keeping her distance, popping in only now and again, then buzzing off ahead of them down the trail. She was clearly impatient to be back in town, but more than that, the two brothers were talking of things that held no interest for her. Further, only Atyr could hear her contributions. It had been a game for her, for a while, to interject little quips and distractions for his ears only, but she had soon tired of her repeated failures to provoke a reaction.

Their parents had let Cei sleep half the morning in their room as they packed for the trip, with Atyr half-heartedly assisting. But then the poor, young man had been roughly dragged back out of bed, with many a chuckle from their father. He was to go with Atyr to Woodstead and then on to the cabin site to help carry supplies, but no further than that. Despite protestations and a variety of arguments, their parents had been firm on that point. The two brothers were well-laden with all manner of helpful things, both provisions for the journey, and supplies for Atyr's long-stagnated build.

Chief among what he'd been given, was his father's heavy bow, slung now across his back. His bow, he corrected himself. The older woodsman had taken up Atyr's old bow and bent it, and shaken his head. "This is a child's bow. It won't serve you as well as another might, should you need it for more than deer, in the Oldwood." Atyr had protested, but his father had held up a hand to silence him. "You've had it since you were not yet a man," he had said. "But a man should have the greatest bow he can bend." He had pressed the dark-stained grip into Atyr's hands, and had him try it.

As a boy, even well into his second decade, it had been a game for his father to hand him the bow, and have him try to string it, and he'd never once succeeded. It was still no easy task, bracing and bending the heavy limbs of blackened yew, and with an arrow knocked, he could barely achieve a full draw. Once drawn, he could hold it for no more than an instant. But it was his now, and the stiff weight of it was like a power and a comfort on his back.

At the bridge to Leffing's Town, Cei was eager to see the Trolls. Atyr brought him to the little cave, and tried to show him the body of the one troll not born away by the rapids, but his brother could see nothing there. In the end, Atyr took Cei's hand and pressed it to the cold, stiff corpse of the monster, and watched as the young man's eyes went wide with amazement. Cei spent a long moment there, pawing at, what to him must look to be empty air, and feeling the rough skin and heavy limbs.

The clear sky began to whiten with a high, thin haze, shortly after they left the bridge, and in a little while it had darkened into a flat, featureless grey. The air hung heavy, and the fresh smell of rain to come rose from the earth around them. Cei paused to drag out his weather cloak, and yet again Atyr cursed his hurried departure two weeks back, when he had forgotten his own. With all the many things he had left his parent's cabin with, he wished now he had thought to borrow one.

When the rain came, it was only a light drizzle, but Atyr was soon miserable and cold. Cei grinned at him, dry under the hood of his cloak.

"Serves you right for dumping all those trolls into the Rorrend. I should have loved to actually see one."

Atyr glowered playfully at him. "Even if I'd stuffed the other two in the cave, I don't see what difference it would have made to you."

"Well, it would have made the difference that I could have seen a real troll, of course!" He flicked the hem of his cloak at his brother, spraying water across him. It didn't increase the overall dampness of Atyr's clothes in the slightest, but he nevertheless made a show of leaping away.

Landing with a splash on the muddy road, Atyr stopped and cast a glance sidelong at his younger brother. "Why do you think you could have seen the other two? They would have been just as invisible to you as the one you touched."

"The one I touched? Which one was that, now?" Cei strode on ahead casually.

"Cei. Hold a moment." The younger man turned. "Cei, what do you think happened when we were at the bridge earlier?" Atyr was recalling Kella's odd interpretation of the moment Helliot had held the door against her.

Cei looked at him strangely. "Not very much, I would say? You showed me the cave where the trolls had been, didn't you? What are you on about?"

Atyr nodded slowly to himself. "Right. Yes, I did. But what did we find in the cave?"

"You mean the dice you found yesterday before you came home? You still haven't shown me those!"

"Nor will I!" Atyr laughed. "I think those dice are dangerous, Cei, I don't want to handle them more than I have to." He paused. "But, you remember we went in the cave, don't you?"

A look came over Cei then, confusion with a shade of disquiet to it. "I... I guess we did. Don't know how I forgot that already, all those bones and the stink of it... I don't think I would have liked fighting a troll, Atty, glad it was you that did!"

"And you don't remember anything else in the cave? Touching anything? Something you couldn't see?"

Cei was becoming obviously uncomfortable, and he maintained that all they had found in the cave were the remains of the trolls' meals, and that all three troll bodies were gone, likely taken by the rapids. Atyr tried for a while to force the memory out of him, but the best that he got was a grudging admittance that the whole thing was fuzzy and hard to think about.

They fell silent a while after that, both sinking down into their own well-earned headaches. The thin rain gradually drenched Atyr through, and he wished yet again he had borrowed a cloak.

His mood was brought lower still by the realization that he would always be in some way apart from others now. He was fae-touched, and there was a whole world that no one he knew could see or hear. And, even when they were pressed to acknowledge it, when they felt it in the undeniable force of a slammed door or the cold flesh of a troll's corpse, it would be but a fleeting thing. A little time would pass, and Atyr would once more be alone, the memory of the thing no longer shared.

He looked at Cei, trudging along beside him, face hidden by the weathercloak, and felt cuttingly that a separation lay now between them. Sometime before they made it to Woodstead, Pesky rejoined them. Cei, of course, took no notice of her return, and Atyr felt that remove grow yet wider.

It was a hard thing to feel.

It was dark before they made it to the door of Gant's lodging house, but at least the rain had let up. The sky had just begun to clear a bit, and with it Atyr's mood. A few of the braver stars even peered tentatively through the clouds at them as they trudged into town.

It was bright inside, and warm. The main room was mostly empty, on this cold, wet day, but the few patrons who were there were a cheery bunch. Atyr was beginning to recognize many of the regulars.

Cei tried to pay for the lodging and meals with the little coin their parents had given him, but Atyr pushed him away and pressed the six kips back into his palm. He caved swiftly. A younger brother never protests overly when an older brother tells them to keep their coin and spend it on themselves.

The two were ravenous, having sworn off food with fearsome conviction all day. Now though, their stomachs remembered how long they had stood empty, and they made sure Gant understood just how impressive were their appetites. They refused any ale, however, and Cei looked physically ill when the old innkeep asked if they might prefer wine.

As Gant rounded up their meals, they hurried upstairs to drop the overladen packs. Atyr sent Cei back down without him. His brother might have stayed dry under the weathercloak, but he was soaked through. He promised to be right down as soon as he was dry and changed. With Cei out of the room, he turned to Pesky.

"You know where Kella lives, right?"

"I do. Do you want me to tell you where, so you can sing songs under her window in the moonlight?"

Atyr smiled reproachfully at her. "There's no moon tonight, it was up all day. And no, I don't. But I was hoping you could play messenger for me?"

"Ooooh, intrigue!" Pesky circled once around his head and came to rest on his shoulder. She whispered in his ear. "What messages shall I bear to your love?"

He couldn't help but chuckle. Sometimes her annoying behaviour was nonetheless endearing. "If you could tell her that I'm back in town, and that I'm leaving for the Oldwood tomorrow, that would be plenty. And, if you could ask her if she might be able to spare some time in the morning, I have something I want to talk to her about."

"What is it?"

"It's... just something I want to set straight between us. Can you just tell her?"

"A mystery, is it?" She sighed dramatically. "I suppose I shall just have to solve it for myself."

"You'll tell her, though?"

"I am already gone!"

Atyr opened his mouth to remark that that was technically a lie, but by the time he had said, "Actually, that's--" it no longer was. It seemed the little sprite enjoyed playing the role of mystery messenger.

The brothers devoured their meals, and Atyr bought a second helping for each of them. It brought him down to ten kips in his purse, but it was coin well spent, as far as he was concerned. Sated, they forwent any further merriment on the floor. They'd fallen asleep just before dawn that morning, and been noisily awakened not too long after it. They were exhausted.

They had a bedmate, when they got to the room. A woman. She was older, about their mother's age, and seated on the bed reading a well-worn book when they entered. She greeted them politely, moved to the side of the bed and proceeded to ignore them for the rest of the evening. They stood petrified for a moment, their simple Brookwood etiquette at a loss for how to deal with the situation. They shared a series of panicked glances, and eventually got into bed fully clothed, leaving the woman half of the bed to herself.

Uncomfortable though they were, sleep found no difficulty in conquering them, and they were swiftly both in the land of dreams.

Atyr was wakened not long after by a rapid tapping on his eyelids. He twitched and swatted at his face, groaning in displeasure.

"Pesky, what in fate do you--"

"Can you see her now?"

"Huh?"

"Kella. She wants to meet now."

"Oh." He was so tired. "Not in the morning?"

Peksy shrugged at him, her face delighted. "I said you wanted to talk before you left, and she asked if I could go get you. And here I am. Let's go!"

Nodding miserably, he dragged himself out of the bed and, already clothed as he was, made for the door.

"Where are we meeting?"

"Outside her house. I'll take you there."

The night was clear now, and the stars bright, with no moon to wash away their scattered glitter. Pesky led him swiftly through side roads and paths to the western edge of town, then left him in the narrow road.

"Stay here. I'll let her know you've arrived!" She flitted across to a modest, neatly kept house of dark timber and white plaster, disappearing around behind it. A few moments later, she returned.

"Come on, follow me!" Atyr swore she was glowing brighter than usual, filled with delight at, as she no doubt saw it, playing go-between in a lovers' intrigue. He followed her behind the house. A small garden lay there, flowers mainly, and they threaded through it on a stone path, then ducked behind a bush under an open casement. Pesky flitted in through the window, and the instant after, Kella's head poked out, eyes glinting mischievously down at him in the starlight.

"Atyr, climb in! Quiet now, my family are all at home."

"His family calls him Atty," Pesky offered.

"Atty?" Kella giggled. "I think I prefer my 'Atyr Bracken.' They can keep their 'Atty'. But whatever I'm to call you, climb up quick, before someone thinks you're a robber and sets the guard on you!" She held out a hand, and feeling desperately wild, he scrambled up through the window.

He landed on a bed that was placed against the wall and looked around the small room. "Are we in your bedroom?" His chest tightened for a moment. "Your parents will murder me if they find me here!"

Her eyes narrowed. "You really are from the Brookwood, aren't you?" She shook her head. "My parents really won't care. I'm as much a full woman as you are a man. But what they really will do is drag us out and want to meet you and wonder why I sneaked you in my window instead of through the door. So hush, either way."

Atyr wasn't sure about that. Townsfolk might be a bit looser about some things, but he wasn't quite ready to believe they were happy to find strange young men in their daughters' bedrooms at night. Kella laughed quietly.

"Really, it's fine!" She whispered. "Atty, huh? Well, if we're doing full names, mine is really Kellevere. But if you ever use that name I swear to fates and fae I really will drag your luckless self back down to Gant's and force you to read every poem I've ever written." A grin split her face. "There. There's a secret of mine for you. Now what's yours, that you so have to tell me?"

The pleasure at seeing her left him, as he considered revealing the true nature of his interactions with Wetlyn. He needed to set that straight before he left, honest and fair, but it was hard to just jump in. And also... he glanced over at the sprite, hovering just beside them, enraptured by whatever might take place. "Pesky, think we could have a few moments?"

She folded her tiny arms and looked away.

"Pesky," Kella said, "would you mind? I worry I won't get anything interesting out of him. You know how he is."

The little creature relented, smiled, and vanished out the window without a word.

Atyr blinked. "She must really like you. I'd never get that sort of swift compliance out of her."

"We really do seem to get along, yes. But now I'm dying to know; what was so important that you had to come tell me in the middle of the night?"

"I didn't--" He glared at the open window. "I told her to ask you if we could talk in the morning. Then she came back and dragged me out of bed and said that you said we should talk now!" He shifted on the bed. "Maybe I should go and we can just meet on your way to the Birdhouse tomorrow." He placed a hand back on the windowsill, but she stopped him, placing her own hand atop his.

"I'd rather you stayed, Atyr Bracken."

His stomach filled with something hot and frightening and wonderful. "Uh. Right. Sure." He sat back on the bed, and she moved closer to him.

"What did you want to tell me?"

He sat a long moment, trying to will himself to explain what had happened in the witch's tower, but when he opened his mouth, what came out was: "You write poetry? Have you always?"

An odd look came over her dark eyes. "Atyr Bracken, did you really sneak into my bedchamber in the middle of the night to talk about poetry? Let me just say, clearly and truthfully, that I do not at all believe you." She smiled, lips holding in a laugh. "But yes, I have liked writing poems really since I can remember. I read them at Gant's quite a bit. If I recite one for you, will you tell me why you're really here?"

Atyr blinked and chewed lightly on his lip. "Fair. That'll give me a second to settle my head."

Kella pulled away a bit and sat facing him, cross-legged on the bed. "Well, here is one of my favorites. It tells a tale of great sorrow, and of great love, unrequited." She cleared her throat, sat up straight, and, with a somber look in her eyes, stared off as if into a great distance. She whispered the lines.

Goody Turnip here lies, 'neath the soil

A good life she lead,

But long and unwed,

Too devoted was she to her toils,

For each day had its chore

Which she never ignored

Hear ye now, how her prospects were spoilt

On Wonsday she looked to the cleaning,

With no rags for the floor,

Turnip left out the door,

To the tailor, for scraps from his seaming,

With no cloth he could spare,

He stripped the lass bare,

And made rags of her clothes, then stood beaming

Each Tosday she set down for mending,

When her needle got bent,

To the smithy she went,

But she found him with forge-fire ending,

So she grabbed the young smith,

And with fiery kiss,

Soon had his own needle extending

Thrisday was the day to do laundie,

Turnip went to the river,

Five lady-friends with her,

They gossiped and laughed and felt fondie,

'Til fabric and net,

Weren't all that was wet,

Then they scrubbed, and they rubbed the full monty

Each Forsday she set to her baking,

But the milk had gone sour,

And she wanted for flour,

So to Miller she brought goods for trading,

"Sure, I'll grind for ye, lass!"

Then with eyes on her ass,

"I've milk too, if you'll help with the making!"

On Fiesday she spun at her wheel,

But spindle half-full,

She ran out of wool,

Hence to Sheep Herd she took her appeal,

"No payment!" said he,

Turnip fell to her knees,

So grateful was she for the deal

Sisday was the day Turnip gardened,

She had shovel and hoe,

But with nothing to sow,

To a Tinker troupe went, for a bargain,

There she soon filled her need,

And gathered some seed,

From the first man she met who would harden

Her five friends came a-calling that Senday

Also Tailor and Smith,

And the Miller forthwith,

Sheep Herd, Tinker as well, all attending,

Turnip cried "I'm exhausted,

"To be so accosted!"

So she paired up all ten,

And they left her again,

And she went in her home,

And she curled up alone,

With her hands to herself

And took time for her health,

In bed,

By herself,

It was splendid"

A silence fell as her last words hung in the air, her face still caught in that look of deep rapture. Atyr felt his cheeks burning. Then Kella's composure broke, and she collapsed in silent giggles on the bed, rolling onto her back and laying her head on his lap. She grinned up at him.

"Your face!" she whispered. "I swear halfway through you still looked like you really thought it might yet be a profound saga full of pathos and, and whatever else a saga ought to be full of. I could almost see you thinking to yourself, 'is there some deep meaning in the goodwife's need for milk to bake with? Is it a symbol of something?'" She sighed. "Oh, Atyr. Atyr Bracken, you really haven't the head for poetry at all, have you?"

He couldn't help but grin back as he looked down at her on his lap, happiness and a thrill running through him. He shook his head. She reached up and poked his nose.

"Now, out with it!"

The happiness left, though the jitters and the heat in his stomach remained. He closed his eyes, turned his face away, and forced himself to speak. In as few words as possible, as simply as he could, he told her the barest, sparsest version of his two experiences with Wetlyn. It took only a brief moment to share. Then it was out. It was over, and he couldn't undo it.

No sound came from where he felt Kella's head still resting. He waited for her to sit up, to tell him to leave, or perhaps even to shout for her family to come and remove him. But, he knew she would never do that last. She would move away from him, disappointment and hurt on her face, and quietly ask that he leave. Likely, she would even wish him well on his journey to the Oldwood.

But she didn't speak, and her head remained on his lap. At length, he opened his eyes and forced his gaze down to her. She was looking at him curiously.

"Well, do you feel better now? With that off your chest?"

He steadied his voice and responded, softly. "No. I don't. I didn't tell you so I could feel better, I told you because you deserve to know."

She stared up into his face for a long moment. He couldn't meet her eyes.

"Atyr Bracken. Brookwood boy among Brookwood boys. I gave you a quick kiss a week ago, which you never even gave back, and now you think we're betrothed, promised to each other, vows made, public and binding? Is that it?"

His eyes slid back to her, still nestled in the shadows on his lap. She still hadn't pulled away. There was a gentle quirk to her lips. That teasing smile, and those mocking words, they fell on him as cold water smothers a hopeful flame.

"I'm sorry. I... I thought maybe it meant more." The words were a cloying bitterness in his throat now. He really had thought it meant more, but that was just the backwards Brookwood boy in him, wasn't it? Just the naive hopes of some dummy from the woods.

Kella lay on him still, but her eyes grew serious. "I'm sorry, I said more than I really should. I think it's really just different out there in the Brookwood than here in town. Sometimes you just feel really... old-fashioned to me, I guess." She could see the hurt on his face, and she hurried to say more. "But it did mean something. Honestly. I want it to mean something. I just don't think it means you can't let some witch play around with you too." Her eyes held a question for him.

He didn't understand. He didn't know how to respond to any of this. So he didn't. Kella kept talking.

"Look, I really do want it to mean something. Maybe even a lot. But I don't know if I'm ready to say, 'this is it', and clip my wings and get tied down and throw out my anchor and, and whatever other saying you want to use to mean I have to settle down and--and never again be curious."

She reached up and touched his cheek. He melted into her hand, eyes closing at the warmth of her.

"Atyr, can't it mean something, and still not mean that we can never look at another person, that no one else can even touch us?" He wasn't sure if it could, if that made sense to him, but in that moment all he could care about was that she was here with him, and that her head was in his lap and her touch on his face. His breath came shakily, and he nodded, unsure what he was nodding to.

Her fingers moved from his cheek to trace like a whisper across his lips. Dark eyes stared into him. Her features were soft and blurred in the dim starlight that came in with the night breeze and the scent of flowers through the open window. She smiled up at him and her lips parted gently. "Atyr Bracken. When are you going to remember your manners and kiss me?"

He did. He didn't speak, he didn't answer, but he kissed her then. His hands slid under her head, dark, silken hair flowing through his fingers, and he lifted her head up to him, and he bent, and their eyes met, and their breath ran hot together, and their hearts beat fast and hard. Their lips met too, and his whole body washed cold and then burning and then cold. He was shaking.

They were both shaking.

He pulled her up closer to him across his lap, and he felt the soft tip of her tongue trace wet across his lips, running along them and pushing softly between. He moaned back into her mouth and let his own tongue slide against hers. They pressed into each other, locked together for an endless, shivering moment, and then she pulled away, biting tenderly at his lower lip before parting and laying her head back down on his lap.

He became aware that he was hard now, and he knew she could feel it pushing against her as she lay on him. But she only grinned. A joyous life was singing in her eyes.

She whispered to him then, and he heard it in his ears like the wind of fate blowing him towards some wondrous disaster. He wanted that whisper in his ears forever. "Did that mean something, Atyr Bracken?"

He nodded like a dreaming man, lost in her voice, her hair, her scent, her eyes. She smiled back at him and he knew it for the dream that it was. But her hair was real, and her scent was real, and the starlight reflecting in her eyes was realer still, and they were awake, and she was real, and her voice was real too, when it came again, and again she whispered with it, the sweetest word any man has ever heard from a woman.

"Again."

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-------------END PART TWO-------------

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