Fiddlis felt the rushing warmth in her body before her blind aching eyes even opened. She moaned and turned over in what she took to be a huge soft bed. The bed felt warm and delicious under her tired limbs and the pillows she was flattening with her weary head were deep and bouncy. It felt just like her own dear little bed, sitting in a messy corner in Auntie’s house, but ten times larger and warmer. Fiddlis let a hand drop down over the side of the bed and she felt cozy air embrace it. What lovely place was this? The faint smell of pine and strong sweet candy hung like a mist in the air. Fiddlis shook the sleep from her head and propped herself upon one elbow, cocking her head this way and that, trying to catch a sound that might tell her where she had been taken. The little girl heard a gentle swishing creak, like wind through ice-coated branches, but little else. Fiddlis tipped her head back until she was resting in her big pillow again, enjoying the warmth touching her face, making her pale cheeks rosy again. Surely this place was a heavenly one!
Fiddlis was just beginning to drift off into a happy slumber once more when her sharp ears caught the sound of a gentle footfall. She blinked her unseeing eyes and turned her head towards the sound of a heavy door opening. “Who is there?” she muttered sleepily. The door closed and the footsteps, along with the comforting rustle of soft thin fabric on the floor, tickled Fiddlis’s ears. Fiddlis sensed a presence halting before her and she guessed it was a tall woman by the floating flowery scent and a soft slender hand that reached down to stroke her forehead.
“I see you are awake,” said a kindly voice. It was warm and soft, like a mother, and Fiddlis was reminded of her dear old Auntie.
“Where am I?” she asked shyly, hiding her nose under the velvety covers. Whoever had touched her was a great lady, not a common villager. She felt the bed dip slightly at her feet and sat up, reaching out to hands to touch the lady settling herself on the bed.
“In good hands,” the lady answered. “My name is Stara Underwild and I will be caring for you over the next few days. You were badly hurt, my dear little girl-child.” Fiddlis rested her hand on Stara’s soft slippery dress and felt confused.
“I can recall nothing,” she said, muddled. “How was I hurt? And where am I?” Stara gave a small sigh and gently rested her hand upon Fiddlis’s head.
“You were attacked by a wretched Yule monster,” she said carefully. “Some of our men heard you crying out in pain, and ran with bows and arrows flying thick from their fingers to your aid. You had been hurt, tripped up by the Yule’s roots and then bashed over the head by one of their heavy wooden cudgels.” Fiddlis shivered and reached up to touch her head. It had been bandaged with a piece of the same fabric Stara wore as a dress. Fiddlis had not realized it was there, it had been wrapped so lightly around her head, which faintly ached now that she knew what had happened to her. Fiddlis sat in a stunned silence as Stara went on.
“The men were able to drive away the lone Yule tree-beast, but not before you had fallen into a blackness that only our healers had hope of reviving you from. For several hours, you lied upon this bed as if you were dead, yet the healers and enchantresses still had hope for you. They implored their ancient arts, given to us by the One Who Is Not Spoken Of, and finally they sensed life still pulsing weakly within you. With fervent prayer and hard work, we were able to let you live again.”
Fiddlis sat soberly stroking the soft dress and rubbing the side of her head, trying to remember something of what had happened. Yet it was all a thick stewy cloud made up of broken shards from sunrise light she had never seen and the grasping, curvy roots of the Yule that she could only feel as it came down upon her head with massive strength. “Where am I?” she whispered a third time. The woman sat in silence for a long while, as if hesitant to tell her anything. Finally, Stara said “Little human girl-child...you are in the realm of the Fairies. You lie in a Fairy bed in a Fairy room, in the Fairyland of our conquering. You were rescued by our Fairy men and healed by our Fairy physicians. You talk to a Fairy now.”
Fiddlis gasped. All her young life, she had heard ferocious tales of how evil and cunning the Fairies were, stealing away human child from the Crescentfolk and highlanders, and exchanging them for wild Fairy babies. Everyone feared the Fairies and held a grudge against them because they had won the precious Riverlands instead of their own human strength. Perhaps the villagers of the twin kingdom Crescent and Warwick were wrong to scorn the powerful Fairies; they had won fairly. Fiddlis knew but little of the age-old dispute, living so far away from the boiling prejudices and hulking violence which threatened to tear the King’s lands apart.
“What…what do you intend to do with me?” Fiddlis asked, suddenly fearful. She allowed her hand to slip from Stara’s knee and fall back into her lap. “Are all the stories I have heard about you true?” Stara caught up the child’s hand and presses it to her cheek.
“No no, my dear! Hatred and darkness makes humans talk so about us dwelling here in the Riverland. We mean you humans no harm, and hope you will show us the same respect.” Fiddlis grinned and felt a slight ache in her head.
“I cannot speak for the rest of the human race, but I will speak for myself. I respect you!” Stara gave her a soft hug and her honeysuckle smell enveloped Fiddlis.
There came a sudden pounding at the door. Stara helped Fiddlis snuggle back into her blankets and then walked over to crack open the door. Fiddlis tried to fall into a peaceful slumber once more but her unseeing eyes kept popping open as Stara and a deep male voice murmured back and forth. Finally Stara turned and smoothed Fiddlis’s covers.
“There is to be a Fairy council.” Her tan high-boned face was pale. “You are to come with me.”
The fat little cook, his face red and shining with sweat, impatiently ladled out that evening’s dinner. The gruel muddled with the stale piece of bread on Conan’s plate as he sat down to pick at the food. Northumbrio might give his servants warm clothes and a room of their own to sleep in, but he did not seem to care about their health as far as food went. A big black fly alighted upon the sagging gruel and Conan waved it away disgustedly. He picked up the hard little loaf of bread and nibbled at it, listening to the buzz of the big marble room ring in his ears. Northumbrio’s men, slaves and soldiers alike, all gathered here for every meal to partake of their meager helpings and often talked loudly to be heard above the clang if dishes and the grumbling of the three cooks, who felt their work to be too laborious for happy spirits. The very atmosphere was tight and unhappy, but Conan felt the odd bored sensation that he had always eaten here, that he had always listened to the incessant thrumming of voices, that he always had this sloppy, slippery gruel and miserable stale bread for his dinner. It was normal, it was what he had always done.
Conan was jostled as two loud vapid guards elbowed their way to sit beside him. One of them smelled strongly of garlic.
“Ho, minstrel, move aside and let two starving king’s men sup!” Garlic said. Conan ignored him and chewed his bread furiously. How dare they order him about, as if they were Northumbrio himself! The other guard tapped him on the shoulder. “Move aside,” he snarled in a gravelly voice. “We are hungry and you keep us from our meal!” Conan looked around the room, chewing thoughtfully. He was enjoying the two guards’ distress. Suddenly he felt a rough jerk at his collar as Garlic picked him up and flung him across the table.
“Can you not hear, minstrel?” he snapped. His eyes were small and piggish as they bored into Conan’s. “We said, MOVE ASIDE.” Conan struggled under the bigger man’s iron paw on his back, pinning him face first onto the table. The other servants and guards started laughing and moving away in anticipation of a brawl. There were often fights in the mess house, everyone was tired from the long day and wanted their bellies filled. Insolence was not to be tolerated.
Conan twisted around and swung his fist at Garlic, catching him on the side of the head. “I will sit where I please!” he shouted hoarsely. Garlic staggered back against the wall, then wiped the spittle from his cheek and lunged at Conan, a wild look in his eye. Conan saw the meaty fist coming but was too slow to dodge it and felt an explosion of pain ripple through his jaw. Conan rammed his head into Garlic’s ample stomach and knocked him to the ground. Garlic rolled over on top of him, pressing the breath from his lungs, and began pummeling him over and over. The other guard egged them on and started the other men chanting. Conan felt his skin break and a trickle of blood start at the side of his face. He began to squirm and kick underneath Garlic’s heavy square body and managed to push him off balance. Conan leapt up and kneed Garlic in the shoulder, going down with him and digging his sharp knee into his mushy flesh. Garlic shouted in pain and rage and caught Conan’s throat in his hands. He squeezed harder and harder, as Conan drove his other knee into Garlic’s thigh and the crowd became rowdy. A few guards on mess shift came running in, their armor clanking. Conan ignored them as his slight became blurred. He jumped off of Garlic and punched him as the bigger man came up swinging. Garlic reeled back into the arms of the men, who pushed him back into Conan. He crashed against the minstrel and caught his wrists, slamming him against the wall and pinning him there. The other guard tossed Garlic a fire poker from the hearth and he brandished it wildly, waving it above the heads of the excited crowd. Conan shouted curses angrily at the unjust match and tried to shove his knee into Garlic once more. Garlic saw it coming and brought his fire poker down across Conan’s leg with a hard thwack. Conan cried out in surprised pain and gently lowered his foot to rest on the floor. Garlic shouted triumphantly and brought the fire poker close to Conan face; it was still smoldering from the hearth and Garlic waved the red hot weapon back and forth before Conan’s throat.
“Shall we singe that pretty singing voice of yours?” Garlic laughed loudly, his foul breath blasting into Conan’s face. The minstrel struggled vainly as Garlic turned and lead the other men in a rude chant: “Burn his pretty throat, we will, burn his pretty throat!” Conan willed the armored guards to fight their way through the jostling men. Garlic chuckled as the men continued the chant and he let Conan feel the heat of the fire poker next to his face. Conan pressed his head up against the wall but Garlic brought the poker closer and closer. He felt a searing touch across his neck and clenched his teeth against an agonized cry.
“Leave him be!” shouted one of the armored guards. Garlic dropped Conan and he gasped, sinking to the floor and gingerly feeling the burn across his neck. Garlic melted into the crowd before anyone could catch him. The other men began innocently milling about, embarrassed.
One of the guards sighed, annoyed at being disturbed on duty. He held out his hand to Conan.
“Come,” he said. “You are to come to Northumbrio’s chambers and play for him this night.”
