They wait for me there in the gloom, twigs reaching, branches swaying, a thousand pinprick eyes following me as I trudge through the sand. I turn away, and when I look back, the suffering forest is gone.

  Sparkling and chiming, I walk. The little bone fairies flutter after us, and any impressions I make are soon blown away by the soft wind. Jenkins, of course, leaves no footprints. His spirit body is agile and light as a feather, his paws spending more time in the air than on the ground. He seems content to gambol after me, his demeanour as playful as if we were strolling through Downing on a warm afternoon. I am glad of his presence.

  I walk, and walk, and walk some more.

  I’m not sure how much time passes. Hours? Days? A week? There is nothing to mark the passage of time here and my body does not grow weary. My mind, however, longs for respite, so I think it has been long.

  In the distance, I spy some ruins, which get me momentarily excited. On closer inspection, however, they are just some old buildings long since buried in the sand. Rooftops, a turret… as lifeless and empty as the rest of the desert. I rest my fingers lightly on the sand scoured brickwork. How did they come to be here? The architecture is not something I recognise.

  Perhaps the buildings got sucked into this realm by accident—the inhabitants dying of starvation, doomed to wander forever more, unable to return to whatever strange place spawned them? I tap a corner with one bony finger. It is hard, making a dull knocking sound. They feel real, but perhaps they are not? Perhaps they are a figment of my imagination, like the hare standing on top of the dune.

  Perhaps I am losing my mind at last.

  No. I am clad in silver, the Whisperer’s madness cannot touch me. Whatever madness I have left is all my own. The hare then. Is it real?

  Jenkins sees it too.

  He lifts one paw, his nose sniffing, questing forward. The ridge of his back fluffs.

  The hare certainly looks solid, and larger than usual. Certainly larger than the hares I see in the woods around my cottage. Ears straight up, it is alert and listening. The eyes, round, deep, and dark, dark amber are fixed intently upon me. Poised to run, powerful muscles are bunched beneath its shoulders. Its mouth… Its teeth… The hare grins, and it is not the smile of a herbivore.

  And hares don’t usually grin…

  Jenkins’ backside wiggles, and he explodes forwards, unable to contain himself any longer. Bounding across the sands in great swooping leaps, mindless enthusiasm vibrates through every black hair.

  “Jenkins!” I shout.

  The hare races away, Jenkins close behind.

  “Jenkins!” I cry, and sprint after them. My feet slide in the sand, and I pound up the dune, grains flying. When I reach the top, the mysterious hare is nowhere in sight. Jenkins is stalking the sands, his tail lashing from side to side.

  “Did you lose it?” I ask him.

  He lets out a low rumbling growl, and then sits down and licks a paw. He starts washing his ears, clearly displeased. A shadow flickers on the horizon. The hare, once again staring down at us.

  “There!” I cry, pointing.

  We both start running, and the hare rushes off, vanishing down the far side of the massive dune. When we reach it, it is gone once more. I glare at the desert, my arms akimbo. Again the hare appears, again we give chase. This peculiar behaviour is repeated thrice more. Jenkins grows increasingly irate. He is not used to being toyed with by his dinner.

  “It’s leading us somewhere,” I say. “I don’t trust it, but it’s better than stumbling around aimlessly.”

  Jenkins does not comment, but he defluffs a little, perhaps conceding my point.

  Through the desert we chase the hare. The ruins are long behind us, and in front only that endless undulating sea of sand. Once more, the hare vanishes.

  Jenkins and I are both grumbling now. Jenkins sounds most peculiar, issuing a noise I have never heard him make. I stare at him. He looks at me, and I realise it’s not Jenkins. Not the hare either. What is making that noise? A strange noise… but not unpleasant. Humming? Warbling? Sharpening to a strange enchanting cry. Soulful. Half song, half sorrow. It is very beautiful, echoing over the featureless plane beneath that dark empty sky.

  It disappears as quickly as it came.

  I shake my head.

  “What do you think it was?” I say softly.

  Jenkins lifts one paw inquiringly, his ears pricked.

  The noise comes again, drifting over the air like… like nothing I have ever heard before. Deep, melodic, sonorous. No. That’s not true. Once, when I rested briefly at the bottom of the ocean, I heard a mystical song beneath the waves. A song that sounded like dreaming, uttered by the giant creatures of the ocean.

  But what is it doing here? There are no whales in the desert. There is nothing here but bad spirits and whispers! Certainly no water to speak of. I don’t understand. I turn on the spot, seeking the source.

  I see it.

  Drifting over the dunes, glowing blue with magical light, a great whale swims through the air, its flippers moving lazily. It is easily the size of a barn, but it is floating as easily as a cloud. My mouth drops open. The whale flies, and floats, and sings, the sound reverberating across the sands to set the dunes aquiver. And it is not alone.

  By its side fly various other creatures. Lazy, airbourne fish, swimming through the skies, emitting gleaming lights, spots and shining gills. Schools of amorphous glowing flickers dart here and there. Little spirits? I cannot tell. Between them drift creatures half fish, half bird, with wide wings of dappled, glistening grey. None of them are moving fast. All of their movements are graceful, unhurried, and coordinated. A school of magical creatures engaged in a complex ballet of movement that somehow complements all its parts. Though I cannot see the pattern to it, I am sure one exists.

  Each and every creature lets out soft notes that set my silver chiming. It is like some bizarre dream. But I am not asleep. I do not dream, so I must accept that what I see is real. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it. And yet… it is wondrous.

  With the whale’s song quivering through my bones, I step towards them, sliding down the dune. The whale turns one sweet, benevolent eye towards me and lets out a series of harmonious clicks and whistles. The flying creatures turn as one.

  The implication is clear. Follow. So I do.

  “Where are we headed?” I call. “Where are we going?”

  But they do not stop, and they do not answer.

  The hare does not reappear. Presumably, its part is done. But where are they leading us? Does the Whisperer know they are here? It is clear to me that their songs drive away the whispers in the same way that my silver does.

  Our musical and slightly bizarre procession wends its way across the sands.

  Jenkins is having the time of his life, darting up and around the magical flying creatures. They do not take umbrage, merely moving aside if he gets too close. Myself, I have to travel by more mundane means because once again, I did not think to bring a broomstick.

  I clamber awkwardly up steep sand dunes and down the otherside, slightly buoyed by the fact that I know my skirts look great. But anyone who has ever climbed dunes in a ballgown will understand my pain.

  I reach the top and my mouth falls open. I have reached my destination.

  Rising out of the lifeless plane is a domed, forested city—a gleaming, magical bowl of sparkling light, encircled by more flying sea creatures. Patrolling? Or merely having fun? It is hard to tell. Perhaps both. Are they guardians? Or do they simply live here?

  The trees are so green. Watching them is a strange sensation. Constantly in motion as if it exists in a current beneath the sea, the forest branches reach up and out to those dancing above, the leaves long and streaming. I have never seen trees like these.

  I drink in the sight, eager after so much dull desert, my mind full of questions. A secret city! Here in the Whisperer’s desert, a secret city full of living, growing things. Who calls it home? I step forward, trying not to ogle. The sky above the city shimmers, full of dancing light and colour. Poking through the great clouds of greenery are graceful spires of silver. Turrets and battlements, this castle is the twin to the one I saw in the fairy realm. The one I left cracked and tumbling.

  The dome of the city rises from a bedrock of silver-threaded ore. Sparkling stones spread out and around. I am stepping on it now, and already I can feel the ground beneath my feet is firmer. Less slithery. It is a relief after the incessant hiss of the sands.

  Here and there, tiny plants grow in the crevices. Sprouting from the veins of silver, they emit gentle songs. Song is not the right word. The flowers are humming. Alien to me, they are of no species I have ever beheld in my forest, or anywhere else in Einheath for that matter. Their pale petals are pleasing and vaguely reminiscent of flowers from the high peaks.

  I wish to examine them more closely, but someone is waiting for me. A familiar figure, outlined in the gateway; the elven fortune teller from the fairy market. Surrounded by floating, harmonising jellyfish, she beckons me forward.

  “Welcome,” she calls across the silver-threaded ore. “Welcome to Caelestis. I’m so glad you made it.”

  Chapter 33

  Caelestis

  “Caelestis?” I say, stepping closer. “I have never heard of such a place.”

  I eye the harmonising school of creatures circling the dome of the city, the idly drifting trees, the silver castle, the sparkling ore threaded walls rising from the sands. It is defensive, and yet… it does not seem like a city on high alert. Who lives here? Beside the floating creatures?

  “Knowledge of the secret city is well guarded,” says the fortune teller with a slight smile, watching me from beneath her cowl.

  “Clearly. Is this your home?”

  “Yes. Although I wander frequently into the wider world.”

  Jenkins does not share my respectful caution. Leaping high into the air, he bats at one of the floating jellyfish with his paws, yowling with excitement. I exclaim, but the jellyfish merely drifts higher with lazy efficiency. A buzz of lightning crackles along its tendrils, as if to say try that again if you dare. Jenkins answers with a rumble deep in his belly.

  The fortune teller smiles gently. “Welcome to you too, Jenkins.” She turns to me, and starts walking towards the silver city. “Come. She is waiting.”

  “Who is waiting? Was it you who you sent the note?”

  “Patience,” she says, not looking back.

  My hand twitches.

  Briefly, I consider chopping her head off with my shiny new axe. It remains unblooded, and I have pounded what little remains of my patience into the million tiny shifting grains of skull-sand in the Whisperer’s desert. But if I kill her, I might antagonise whoever it is she is leading me to. If I kill her, I am just a stone-hearted lich. Besides, I want answers, and above all, I want the means to kill the Whisperer. No one can see the terrible stitching beneath my pauldrons, beneath my gown, but I know it is there, holding my poor ragged limbs together.

  So I grit my teeth and follow her through the silver-veined arch and into the mysterious city beyond.

  Through the archway, the stone beneath my feet positively vibrates with energy. Everything hums in tune to a melody that is just beyond my understanding. As I walk, I discover that I am now part of the song. The soft chime of my bells, the shimmering softness of metal cloth, all part of the music of the city. I belong, for now. Harmonious magic envelops the city, and despite the lovely sound, I suspect anything discordant is expelled extremely quickly, and possibly with extreme violence. As it is, the music is vast and all consuming.

  I can feel the weight of the magic wielded here, and it is not something to be trifled with. But then, it must be stupendous to hold back the wrath of the mad god of death in his own dominion.

  The elven woman leads me deeper into the silver city, and it is all I can do not to gawk like a peasant. It is so green. The soft illumination of the foliage is intense after the pale drab of the desert. The dwellings are well-spaced and elegantly built—and vaguely familiar. It takes me a moment to place them. Ah, yes! They are in the same style as the desert ruins—steep roofs, tapering spires and finely worked mashrabiya. However, instead of the dull, sand-scoured bricks, these are made with silver lined stones. Presumably why they survived while the others did not?

  The inhabitants of Caelestis are all elves, save for the few spirits and pixies I see fluttering amongst the greenery like vivid sparkles of rainbow light. The elfen children are small and dainty, the adults light and elegant. All of their long, pointed ears are boldly displayed, hair and hoods arranged to draw attention to the feature, rather than to hide it. I had always assumed elves were a type of fairy, but now I am not so sure.

  Gowned in flowing robes and diaphanous veils, they stop to stare at me, and I stare right back. The inhabitants and the greenery are so interesting that I barely have eyes for the city itself. When I do happen to look up, we are passing through a marketplace of shops. My eyes land on a familiar facade, and I come to an abrupt stop, a curse on my lips. What do I see but a tricksy little shop with a slim black door!

  The last time I saw that door, it was disappearing from the centre of Fairhaven, and I was being expelled out of it into the waiting arms of a bunch of overzealous, muscled brained paladins. There can be no doubt. Everything is the same—the bulbous glass windows, the shadowy interior. The wooden sign with the solitary silver candle. I have been searching for this shop for months, and now it is here, parked in the Whisperer’s realm, as neat as pie and twice as innocent.

  I heft my axe and start for the door.

  A light hand touches my arm.

  I look down at it and the fortune teller pulls it away immediately.

  “Please,” she says. “She is waiting. You can visit the travelling shop afterwards, if you so desire.”

  “The travelling shop,” I repeat.

  “Yes,” she says, and gestures onwards.

  I grind my teeth and glare at the door. ‘She’ better be something really special. With one backward glance at the shop, I allow myself to be led away, deeper into the heart of the city.

  “Who is ‘she’?” I demand. “Tell me that at least.”

  “Soon all your questions will be answered,” the fortune teller says in a soothing, beatific voice that probably works wonders on her usual clientele but makes me want to strangle her elegant elven neck. Somehow, I resist.

  She leads me up and around in a gentle spiral, heading, I assume, for the silver castle. We leave behind the silver-veined cobbles of the market district and tread through a garden forest illuminated by more glowing, singing creatures. It is easy to forget that outside is an empty, desolate void. Here, all is illumination and light. And not the raucous, flamboyant energy of the fairy queen’s realm. Oh, no. This is gentle magic, although no less powerful. I can feel it working on my head, making me more relaxed than usual. It sinks into my bones, making them hum, embracing me as part of the whole. The feeling intensifies as we draw closer to the centre of the city.

  I shake my head in suspicion. I feel strange but… I think it is just the Whisperer’s presence that is being cleansed from me. I can feel that—I feel… lighter. If a little physically weaker. How much remains of me, and how much is due to him? My fingers tighten on my axe shaft, but alas, I have nothing to fight. So I keep following the blue clad figure of the elven fortune teller.

  To my surprise, the centre of the city is not the castle, but a large reflective pool. A series of interlocked bridges lead us over a series of little waterways. Tiny fae creatures with dragonfly wings flit across the surface, lending their own notes to the softly orchestrated sounds. Through the treetops, I can see the gently orbiting monsters floating above, like strings of stars being stirred in a pitch black stew.

  “Does the Whisperer know?” I ask.

  “Yes,” says the fortune teller. “He knows we are here. But he can do nothing about it, while harmony is maintained. The song pains him, so he looks the other way.”

  “If the song hurts him, why haven’t you—”

  She comes to a stop, and I realise we have arrived. The words falter in my mouth.

  Standing before the pool, reflected in the still water, is the gleaming figure of a woman.

  Tall hare ears peek through the mane of her curls. Gowned in moss and mycelium, the goddess’ skin glows gently green, pulsing in harmony with the living song around her. Her eyes, resting on me, are a deep, deep viridian. A crown of violets rests on her head, and when she smiles, blossoms spill from her lips.

  “Maud,” says the Green Lady. “I’ve missed you.”

  I fall to my knees.

  The aura of my goddess is overwhelming. There is no questioning her divine nature. While his aura is bitter madness wrapped in a crushing, suffocating, breathless fog, hers is a sweet mist carrying with it the clinging scent of loam, and of growing things. No less dangerous. Infinitely more pleasant.

  She steps closer.

  Gardens spring into bloom around her feet till she stands before me at the centre of a mound of blossoms, leaves and iridescent mushrooms.

  Gently, she lifts my chin with her fingertips, and there is so much love in that touch that I nearly come undone. Tears stream down my cheeks in torrents. How am I crying? I don’t have tear ducts? It does not matter. Like the plants beneath her feet, I am blooming. My flesh fills out, plump and wholesome, my hair sprouts in moments; not spun starlight, but chestnut curls.

  I look up at the Green Lady from the face of the woman I once was.

  “I see into your heart, my lost child.”

  “I have no heart,” I say, defiant, straightening my back. “Not anymore.”

  “Do you not?” says the Green Lady. Gently, she reaches out and encases my palm between the green of her hands.

 

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