The Fairy Letters: A FROST Series(TM) Novel (10 page)

That
night, however, Calthon went out hunting, and there he was eaten by a kelpie,
and killed. But his wife heard in a dream the same voice that Calthon had once
heard, and it said to her:

“One
who eats must be eaten

For
that is the way of all things.

But
within his death bears a new life

Go
to the spot where his body lies

And
from his bones make a house for your son

For
there is now a son lying yet in your womb.”

And
so the maiden went to find Calthon's body, and when she had wept over him she
did as the voices told her, and built a house from his bones. This became the
first palace of Feyland (and both Winter and Summer Courts claim that it is on
that site that their palace is built), and the son of the woman reigned as
Feyland's first king. And from this day it is said that men cook to sanctify
their killing, and women do the building to make life from what is dead.

Letter 13

My
dearest Breena,

In
my last letter I wrote to you of the ancient tradition of why men are meant to
be cooks, and women are meant to forge weapons and make buildings. But of
course this is only part of the story of the long history of the Royal Feydom.
For the story of Calthon is told by both Summer and Winter fairies alike
(although I hear that Spring and Autumn fairies have their own versions of why
it is that we have a royal family today) to explain the birth of the royal
family in Feyland. But beyond that, the stories are widely different. Winter
fairies believe that there was an unbroken line from Calthon onwards, and that
only late in the dynasty of succession did an angry brother break away from the
Summer Court (this story I have told you already). But there is another story
told by the Summer people, which explains the difference between Winter and
Summer in another way – that the woman who was Calthon's bride (her name is not
recorded to us in any version) gave birth not to one son but two, and these two
sons were rivals all their lives. For it was said that when one wanted to do
something, the other would wish to do it twice as well - “when one reaches for
a stone-fruit, the other leaps up to taste a berry-melon,” in the old Fey
proverb. (For this, Breena, it is necessary to know that a berry-melon is
roughly the size of a boulder, while a stone-fruit – as its name suggests – is
no bigger than a pebble! How much there is still to learn about Feyland, no?
And how anxious I am to teach you all its ways!) These two brothers hated each
other so ferociously that nothing could be done with them – their mother tried
in vain to separate them when they fought, and to pacify their anger with toys
and sweet fruits, but the endeavor led only, inexorably, to pain. For nothing
could stop these two boys from warring with each other.

While
when they were toddlers, their rivalry was relatively harmless – a few split
lips, a few angry tussles – their hatred grew dangerous as they grew into
adulthood. For which of the two of them would rule this newly conquered
kingdom, this endless expanse of desert that had, by the ancient magic, been
transformed for Calthon into a habitable place. The two brothers argued
bitterly, and when no solution could be found at last they agreed to a duel to
the death: only one of the brothers could live, it was decided, for as long as
both survived, the kingdom would ever be in peril.

But
the boys' mother grieved at such an outcome. She could not bear to think that
she could lose either one of  her beloved boys – especially not so soon after
her husband had been killed by a kelpie. So she decided to make the arduous
trek to call upon the ancient magic once more, to ask for their protection. “O
ancient magic,” she called upon them, trying to get in touch with the primeval
powers that seemed to whir and buzz and flutter all around them, rendering
their universe ever-shimmering with the unearthly. “Let me save both of my sons
from this dire fate.”

She
heard a voice – the same voice she had heard many years before – and it said to
her:

“There
is a place – a mountain

Further
than that mountain you cannot go

The
ends of the world must you travel to

to
stop the end of a life.”

They
say that this place is Mount Malum, a mountain ascending straight into the sun
of Feyland (for at this time, the suns had not yet divided)

There
are many stories told about this place, Breena – I do not know which is true.
The myths of Feyland are as tangled and twining as the myths of your world. My
mother believes fervently in this mountain – I sometimes do. Nobody has ever
found it, not for centuries – for they say that only one guided by true love
can find it, a love as true and strong as that which Calthon's wife felt for
both of her warring children.

            So
she wandered all night into the black, and just as the sky seemed to be made of
black velvet, with each star a diamond stud, she found herself atop this
mountain, her limbs aching, her body weary. And there she found at the top of
the mountain a table carved of ice – yet still with flowers growing out of it –
a miraculous contradiction! And upon the table were two gems, glowing bright.
The first was in the shape of a sun, a bright golden gem. The second was in the
shape of a snowflake, and it was silver and blue. And once more she heard the
ancient voice calling to her:

“Two
ancient gems of protection

Older
still than Feyland

The
wearer will bear life

But
it will come as a sacrifice.”

            And
Calthon's wife knew in her heart that these charms would protect both her
children. But as she picked them up, she felt a great stirring in the earth.
Looking up, she saw how the sun – a bulbous orb just above her – seemed to
crackle and spark like kindling fire – and she gasped to see how the sun seemed
to grow larger and larger, ever-greater, until at last with a great
bang
the
sun split apart into two suns – the second sun whirring out into space and
coming to rest on the other end of Feyland, upon the horizon. And from that sun
spilled an overflow of light – light that transformed into another mountain at
the other end.

“They
swore that in their life

There
could not be one kingdom.

We
have granted them mercy.

But
they are bound by their oath.”

And
suddenly snow and ice, pine and fire, and all the trappings of Winter appeared
on one mountain, and grass, and moss, and fruits, and vines, and all the
attributes of Summer on the other, and thus were the two kingdoms born.

            Calthon's
wife climbed down the mountain again, and at dawn – a twin dawn – she gave one
amulet to each son, but did not tell them what it was for. And so they fought,
but neither could kill the other, for the one canceled out the other, and
though they fought for twenty years without stopping, not one could be the
victor. And at last they heard the ancient voice:

“Cease
your struggle, boys, fools. Your mother's pain has given you both a home. From
her womb to these new spires.”

            The
boys looked up and realized then and there that the one kingdom had been
divided in two, and realized that their amulets – the charms given to them –
had protected each from death. (This is not the only story about immortality
that is traded by the fairies, but it is my favorite). And they gave thanks,
and though their hearts were still bitter against one another each went to his
own mountain, his own kingdom, and they ruled separately thereafter.)

            Now,
these two amulets – the snowflake and the sun – are said to be handed down in
each generation. While some fairies have false immortality – they are
impossibly strong, and are less likely to die a non-magical death (the stronger
the fairy, the more likely their survival – we of the royal house have the
greatest strength), only the snowflake guarantees true immortality. But nobody
wishes to live forever – my mother recognizes that it is a curse (for another
story says that immortality was given to us not as a blessing, but as a
punishment) – and so each mother and father of the royal court pass it down to
their heir when they are ready to give up that gift, so delightful and yet so
dangerous.

            The
other day, my mother gave the snowflake to me. “I was in possession of this –
not your father,” she whispered. “He gave it to me as a wedding-gift. If he had
not...” Her voice trailed off. If he had not, it may well have been my mother
who died in battle, and my father sitting upon the throne now. “But I have
ruled too long. One day, one day soon, it will be your turn. I cannot bear to
lose my son, Kian. I will not watch another man of this royal house die before
my eyes. It is your turn to wear the snowflake.”

            The
amulet sits upon my desk now. And in its sparkle, its incandescent sheen, I can
think of only one thing, process only one desire. If I am immortal, darling
Breena, I want you with me – or else I do not want this gift at all!

Letter 14

My Dearest
Breena,

            My
arms crave yours. I wake up in the night and the emptiness in the bed beside me
is almost too much to bear. I reach out, wishing to touch the small of your
back, the smooth wingless lines of your ribs, and there is nothing there. The
satin of my bedclothes, the silk of my pillows, feels as rough and harsh to me
as sandpaper or dragons' scales – there is no pleasure in it. I cannot enjoy
anything anymore – I wither away. I do not eat. My sleep is punctuated by
nightmares. I dream that my wings have been severed from my body – that I have
been made weak by their absence, that they lie at my feet sliced and
silver-laced. Agony courses through my blood – a fever that is not a fever, but
that infects the soul first and the body only thereafter. I cannot fly; I
cannot soar above the heights of Feyland, looking down on its mountains, on its
ridges, the rushing of its streams and the great rolling of its seas.

            You
have clipped my wings, my love. My love for you has torn them from my body –
left me aching and powerless. When I wake, and allow my wings to spring
fully-flexed from my back, I still feel as if I can never fly again. The pain
is too great – my desire to whirl through the crowds not alone, but with you by
my side.

            It
is so strange to me to think that that you will never spring any wings. It is
such a familiar part of female beauty here – and male too. We admire the
differing designs on the wings of the fairies around us – my family's wings are
all blue and silver, with intricate designs from which our coat of arms has
been taken. Shasta's wings have a white sheen; mine are tinged with black. “A
woman's beauty is in three places,” one fairy saying goes, “on her face, at her
bosom, and springing from her back.” Yet when I look at the smooth back of
yours, tanned and strong from your adventures, I find nothing lacking there. I
would change nothing about you, my dearest Breena – except the circumstances
that keep us apart.

            Yet
it pains me to think that you will never be able to fly with me (although such
pain is mitigated when I think that I might, rather, hold you close and tight
in my arms, and thus take you spinning towards the stars). There is nothing
more exhilarating than the feeling of stretching out one's wings into the open
air, feeling them beat onwards towards the sky, letting a cool breeze waft over
one's body. I crave the feeling of spiraling higher and higher, pushing the air
downwards, pushing myself upwards – looking down as the world below me gets
smaller and smaller, and as the universe seems bigger and bigger.

Sometimes,
I feel that if I beat long and hard enough with my wings – longer and harder
than any fairy has done before – I will be able to ascend so high that Feyland
itself becomes invisible to me. Perhaps then I will be able to reach the top of
the mysterious Mount Malum, where so many stories speak of the gift of
immortality being handed down – or perhaps I will reach the top of Mount
Eberim, which stretches into the other sun of Feyland. Perhaps I will go
further still, so high up that even those mountains are but a memory to me –
and then I will reach the stars. Who knows what other worlds exist on the backs
of these stars – stars that look like fairy wings, gossamer and shimmering and
breathtaking in their beauty? Perhaps there are other fairy kingdoms, other
brands of magic, which can only be reached with that special kind of strength
that gives my wings the courage to reach them. Perhaps the ancient magic that
once infused Cathon with his power comes from those celestial bodies. Who knows
– or will ever know? - the secrets of the universe?

Whenever
I fly, all these things cross my mind. I become aware of how small Feyland is –
even in all its loveliness, even in all my love for it. There is so much more
to discover, Breena! The land beyond those two impassable mountains – Malum and
Eberim – which perhaps I will never discover. Other planets, other sun and moon
and stars! I know that in your land, Breena, men have built ships with no magic
at all, and ascended not only to the moon but indeed higher still, sent
satellites to planets that are not even visible to your mortal eyes on a clear
night! Why can I not fly higher, Breena? Why can I not go there?