Chapter 110

The Consequences of Falsehood

It is hot here, in this strange fae underland, hot and humid. Not surprising, I suppose, since it is ruled over by someone named the Summer Queen.

The sun beats down on the goblin market and many of the denizens wipe sweat from their brows as they go about their business. The vendors selling drinks do a roaring trade. I am grateful that the heat bothers me as little as the extreme cold, and that I have no need of mortal sustenance. If these are the usual temperatures it must be difficult indeed for humans to visit this place without consuming anything for the duration of their visit. How many have been lost here? How many killed by accident or design, after falling afoul of the strange rules and never to be heard from again?

I would wager a fair few.

Standing proudly behind my table of knitted goods, I observe the market. My spot at the edge is an excellent place to creature watch, and there is much to entertain. With the destruction of the mimic, my pecking order seems to have been established, and no one hassles me.

A few scantily fairy women with drooping dragonfly wings come and poke at my jumpers. I smile at them but they leave without comment. This is no surprise, given the heat and their current scandalous state of undress. If I had known I would have made something less cosy.

Just as I am giving up hope of selling anything, a faun in a purple waistcoat close cropped crown of brown curls, arrives to admire one of the scarves.

“How much?” he asks, winding it around his neck. “Oh, it’s very nice!”

It does look good on him.

“One penny, and two farthings,” I say, confidently, having spent a whole ten minutes thinking about the worth of my knitting. Obviously I am undercharging, but then, I don’t actually need the money. It's more the principle of the thing. If I make enough I will get my fortune told by the woman in the blue tent just across. She has glowing, floating, aerial jellyfish handing out cards, and her services sound most intriguing. The jellyfish are singing softly in warbling five part harmonies. I have never seen such an effective marketing strategy.

“I don’t have any pennies,” says the faun, with great consternation. “Or farthings.” He pats down his velvet pockets anxiously, and then his face brightens. He withdraws a leaf from his breast pocket with some ceremony and sets it before me. “There,” he says proudly. “I’ve been saving that for something special!”

I look down at the leaf. It is a little faded and crinkled around the edges as if it has been kept in the pocket for some time. It is quite pretty I suppose, as old, dried up leaves go.

“Is that… a usual form of currency?” I ask.

If lying is not allowed he has to tell me the truth?

“Oh yes!” he says. I look at him carefully. His eyes are bright and guileless. He reminds me a little of Herne.

“Fine. Thank you. Enjoy your scarf.”

I pick up the leaf and the faun trots off happily.

Grumbling under my breath I examine it some more, unable to shake the idea that I am being fiddled. As far as I can tell it is just a leaf. I jog over to the frogman, who startles at my approach and grabs his table firmly to keep himself up.

“Can I buy a curse frog, please?” I ask, brandishing the leaf.

The frogman’s throat pulses as he focuses, and his eyes widen in relief. “For that, my lady, you can have two!”

Huh.

Just like that I am the proud owner of two curse frogs. I carry the slimy things back to my own spot, and put them down carefully on top of my pack.

“Stay there,” I say. “Feel free to curse anyone who tries to steal anything.” To my surprise they stay put. At least for now.

Over the next hour or so I do a surprisingly steady trade in woolly goods and acquire a small pile of leaves, dead flowers, pebbles and one old shoe. Of course I have no idea what it is all worth but I don’t really mind. Watching the market is more entertaining than a village mummery, and someone, somewhere is playing the most beautiful music. Why the fae folk need woolly clothing I have no idea, but when I ask a small imp he tells me it is not always hot, and that the court of winter is sometimes in ascendance. Whatever that means.

My next customer is a small naked sprite with a spindly body and a mushroom hat- no- a mushroom face, who wanders over and stands before the table-corpse. They look at one of the smaller cardigans with wide, liquid black eyes.

“What does it dooo?” The creature asks.

The sprite’s limbs are so thin they look like twigs, and are more than a bit dirty. They are shivering slightly, despite the heat. I can’t tell whether this is normal for mushroom people or whether this one is in a bad way and sorely in need of a warm bath and a cup of tea.

“It’s a cardigan,” I say. “It will keep you warm. And it's made from undead sheeps’ wool so it's extra strong.”

“But what does it do?” The mushroom creature asks again, poking the wool with one anxious twiggy finger. It snatches it back when it sees me looking.

“I don’t know if it does anything else,” I say, truthfully.

The mushroom person looks at me sideways, and then slides a small round pebble onto the table.

“That’s all I have,” the sprite says, sadly.

“Alright then,” I say, picking it up. The pebble is very smooth in the palm of my hand and about the size of a sparrow’s egg.

“Really?” The little sprite's hands clutch the cardigan in covetous excitement.

“Yes, go on.”

They turn with a squeal and rushes into the crowd waving the cardigan over its head.

I assume I have just made a bad trade, but at least there will be one less shivering mushroom sprite in the world. Perhaps. I wrap the smooth pebble and various other oddments in a scrap of silk and put them carefully away in my purse. It is time to be getting on, I have dilly-dallied here too long.

As I start packing up the remains of my knitting, a ripple of motion attracts my eye.

Someone is walking through the market, and the market is changing shape around them. A hot wind gusts, brushing my skin. The frogman dips his head in subservience. Goblin children stop giggling, and slink away, heads bowed.

I crane my neck to get a better look at who has everyone so worked up.

Sailing through the stalls, like a ship in full sail floats a woman with a froth of powder-white hair. The white of her hair contrasts strangely with the unmarked smoothness of her face and a rope of braids holds it back from her face, plaited full of bright summer roses.

Elegantly thin, her cheekbones are pronounced. Her eyes chipped sapphire. Two truly stupendous butterfly wings sprout from her back. Blood red, fading to rusted orange at the edges, they each have two evil eyes in vivid blue at the top. Each wing is lined in velvet black, and highlighted with splodges of white. So tall are her wings, they are visible high over her head, while the bottoms lightly brush the ground.

I am excited when she heads in my direction because, like the rest of her, her gown is quite stupendous.

Pausing in front of the mimic’s corpse, she looks down the length of her tapering, dignified nose at my cardigans. Her gown is black, with a wide, diaphanous skirt in layers like tulip, with a close fitting bodice. The neck is high and stiff with heavy brocade. Her shoulders are padded and brocaded likewise, making more of her slender shape than nature intended. Almost it gives the impression of pauldrons.

So distracted am I by this feast of clothing before me, that I miss the pointed sweep of her ears until she turns away.

“Elf!” I squeal in my excitement. “Elf! Are you an elf? Do you know a mage? An elf mage who makes candles-”

The entire market gasps.

To the left there is a clatter as the frog man collapses into his stall, and his frogs go leaping. Several of her attendants make noises of distress.

The elven butterfly woman looks me full in the face, (which takes a while because her nose is so incredibly long) and says: “I see they are letting riff-raff in again. Just who do you think you are to address me so?”

It occurs to me at that moment, that without my pauldrons and axe, and standing barefoot in the grass, I could likely pass for a human. A small, sickly human, if the person looking was not very well acquainted with what mortal humans look like. However, I refuse to be cowed by tall people in sub-par brocade, and I gather my dignity around me like a shroud.

“I am the Gardener of the Dead, the Stealer of Souls, Crafter Extraordinaire and Queen of Einheath.”

“You?” sneers the elf. “The Queen of the Overworld? I think not.”

“Not the whole world,” I say modestly, “not yet, anyway. But yes, I am the Queen of Einheath.”

“Are you aware of the consequences of lying in this realm?” she asks.

“I know it is ill advised.”

“It is more than ill-advised,” she snaps. A rose petal falls loose from the froth of her snowy hair, so full are those blossoms. Half of them look as if they are about to come loose at any moment. It is hard not to stare.

The elf turns her sharp, obnoxious chin over her shoulder and gestures to one of her fairy attendants. “Briony! Come here!”

The attendant walks forward, cowering before her mistress and I notice she has a transparent silver chain looped around her ankle. It is so fine as to be almost invisible. All of the attendants have the same, and the butterfly elf holds them gathered at her belt, like she is walking a pack of troublesome dogs.

Most of the attendants, like Briony, are pretty fairy women, but quite a few are men. Humen men. Good looking human men. You could even say handsome men. Suspicion blooms in my chest like a wildfire. I count quickly. Yes, there are ten of them. Ten handsome men. And I am guessing I have just insulted the summer queen, she of the dandelion meadow, snooty demeanour and wilting roses.

I am beginning to think the Whisperer planned this all along.

The real question is, is he trying to help me or get me killed? This remains to be seen.

“Yes, mistress?” says Briony. She is green skinned and wearing a simple yellow dress, while her own, dainty wings drooping anxiously down her back.

“Tell a lie,” says the summer queen, casually.

Briony’s cheeks go deathly pale.

“A lie?” she stutters.

“You heard me. Hurry up. Tell me you love me.” The queen looks over Briony’s head at me and says unnecessarily. “She doesn’t.”

“I-”

“Do it now.”

The fae woman, swallows. “Please mistress, I have children-”

“And you should have thought of them before you sold yourself into my service for the cost of a healing potion and a magical loaf of bread. Do not make me ask again.”

Briony is shaking. I move uneasily from side to side, unsure what I am witnessing but not liking it one little bit. Only I am allowed to bully people, and only when they truly deserve it, or are in my way.

The summer queen waits, one powder-white eyebrow quirked.

Briony draws in a shuddering breath, her eyes desperate. She is weeping now. Her watering eyes turn to me, pleadingly. Her chest heaves, and she swallows, as if forcing herself to try and speak.

“Do it now,” says the summer queen.

“I love you!” screams Briony.

Her sobs turn into pained shrieks. Red hot lines criss-crossing her skin, her skin cracks open, cracks open like clay baked too hot, too fast, cracking her open like a fiery egg. Her blood is boiling, I can see it bubbling and steaming. I can see her flesh broiling her alive. With one last, agonised scream the fairy woman is incinerated in a whoosh of flame.

Then she is gone and the market is deathly quiet.

I stare at the little heap of smoking ash, that is all that remains of Briony. I wonder why she sold herself to this cruel elven queen, and whether she was fully aware of the price when she made the deal.

The summer queen watches my expression with rapt attention, as if she has scored some great point.

“If you burst into flames for telling a lie,” I comment, calmly. “Why do you doubt that I am a queen?”

“Oh, it doesn’t happen the first time,” she says, smiling. “The first time you just get uncomfortably hot. You smoke a little from behind the ears. The second time your skin burns, but you survive. The third time, well, you’ve seen for yourself.”

She kicks at the pathetic little pile of ash with one delicately arched foot.

I glower at her perfect round toes. I don’t think I like this woman.

Does she even have a soul? How much trouble would I cause if I just… ripped it out right here and now? I open my mouth to whisper the words, and then shut it again. This is not my house. Not my kingdom. There are rules I don’t fully understand. I should tread carefully, lest I inadvertently destroy myself.

As these thoughts flash through my brain, something stirs in the pile of ash that used to be Briony. Powder-white wings, small and fine flit through the air. A trio of sickly pale butterflies emerge, spiralling up towards the elven queen.

Her hand flicks out, crushing one in her fist. She pops it into her mouth. Little pearly teeth crunch.

“Tastes like despair,” she murmurs.

The other two butterflies settle into her hair, their wings vanishing, white on white.

The summer queen eyes me coldly. She turns with a disdainful sweep of her skirts. “Take care, Queen of Einheath.”