Swan on the Moor

Chapter 17

The fae shifted nervously in their seats, goblets of honeyed wine untouched on the tables before them. The throne was empty. They had all heard the news, the rumours, but the myriad fae loved hearsay and misspeak and a thousand differing conversations were sparking through the hall.

"The King is dead."

"The King means to kill us all."

"The King means to kill all humans."

"The King is riding with the Wild Hunt."

"The King has stolen the Weapons and left Faerie."

"The Sithen is dying again and the King has killed himself."

Indeed, few could fail to notice the Sithen's song tinged with pain; the trees that bent with gold rather than leaves now were withering at the base and trunk; the fruit was no longer ripe but sickeningly, sweetly rotting; the flowers' petals had fallen. The elemental cities were beginning to crumble; the endless mansion of the Sidhe was becoming faded and chipped.

Tiny fae, more butterfly than human, fluttered around the tree tops, dancing in and out of the will'o the wisps, laughing like chimes and embellishing and repeating each rumour to every ear until even the most stoic, earthy being was lost in confusion. The tiny fae's laughter bubbled and rose as they fed off the chaos, for even now their nature could not be dimmed; theirs was the nature that loved to mislead and mystify travellers, spread dissent and disorder.

"Nonsense, nonsense," the brownies and goblins, the most earthly of all fae, muttered to each other, shaking their serious heads. "The King is delayed. The King is coming."

"Are we unled again?" trilled a group of sprites, all gauze and wing, eyes like stars, flitting through their airy element to join the tiny fae for a moment, before diving down to their seats again.

"Never," whispered the elder Sidhe, ignoring the doubts in their hearts and the fulfilment of the fear that always started when the King had been away too long. His charm began to fade from the eyes of the eldest and a sprout of misgiving started in their hearts; they, who had seen monarchs murder and slaughter, sacrifice themselves in bloody ritual for the land or for wisdom, torment the weak or champion the lowly, had never considered themselves able to fall for Beauty, no matter how elemental it was. They agreed with him in their proud souls; the Sidhe were the height of all that existed. And yet, and yet...with him away, it made less sense. Where, for example, had his old favourite Weylin gone? Other fae – Sidhe, elementals, beast-fae - were missing, or retired to their chambers and refusing to leave. And King Adalardo...had the magic truly faded because he was weak? They tried to silence their nervous hearts and waited.

The pause lasted a moment longer. The trees at the end of the hall fluttered and rose, and bent down as if in tribute. The hall fell silent, and he entered.

He was a phoenix reborn; the heart of the sun made flesh. Silence billowed through the hall as he stood there, framed by the bowing trees and his own brilliance, and the masse of Faerie stared in worship and horror. He was the embodiment of his name, the Terrible Beauty, the White Orchid, the light and

beauty that bears no lesser being; that burns all that is weak and with flaw. This was no gentle oak-King like Adalardo or even a warrior-monarch; Avalbane was the very essence of the sun and as pitiless and perfect as that implied. Only his eyes seemed out of place in that perfect face: they shone, right enough, but they flickered, half-mad, manic, as if his very soul was burning alive. For just the few strong enough to see past the image of glory he transmitted, those eyes struck them cold to their hearts with a nameless, ancient fear.

As one, the eyes of the fae fixed upon the sword in his right hand, raised in a salute pose. It was a hidebound bronze sword, looking almost battered, well-used, but edges of that sword were impossible to focus the eyes upon. They seemed to cut into another world even in their stillness.