Feyland: The First Adventure (6 page)

By Monday, her dad felt well enough to go back to work. Jennet waved goodbye a little too enthusiastically, then ran up to the computer room. A few minutes later she was in-game. This time, golden light enveloped her, sending dizzy spirals through her stomach.

It reminded her of the first time she’d played.

She’d mastered six levels since then—each one with interesting challenges. There had been puzzles to unlock, and ferocious fights, and plenty of the usual hack-and-grind questing she was used to from other games. Sometimes Feyland threw odd twists at her, but after that first, creepy start, things had normalized.

No question that the game had patchy coding, which was to be expected of a pre-beta prototype. It was obvious the techs had concentrated their efforts at the beginning. After those first couple quests in-game, the experience had flattened out; the sensations not as vivid or immersive. Though it was still an amazing game.

Jennet’s avatar materialized, as usual, in a faerie ring—but this time she was in the center of a circle of moon-pale mushrooms. Tall oaks encircled the clearing, and the sky was an indigo curtain, dusted silver with stars. A sweet night wind ruffled her hair, pulled at the skirt of her gown—and she
felt
it. There was an extra-reality to the sensations enfolding her. The taste of dew tingled on her tongue, the soft mosses gave like plush velvet beneath her feet.

Clearly the programmers had concentrated on the endgame, too—which meant she was getting close to the final boss.

“S
he comes!” The wood-colored spriggan bowed before the queen, spindly limbs trembling to be this close to her darkness.

“At last.” The queen’s smile was a blade, her eyes black chasms.

The spriggan shook like bare branches in the winter wind. He was the least of his clan, and fully expected to be seized in those pale, deadly hands, broken into kindling, and thrown on the violet bonfire flickering behind him, his screams mixing with the flames as his essence was consumed.

But the queen dismissed him with a gesture, beckoning instead to one of her gossamer-clad handmaidens.

“Greenbriar,” she said.

The faerie maiden bowed her head, hair like moonlight dipping over her face, and moved with willowy grace to stand before the queen. Rising, the Dark Queen took Greenbriar’s hand and pulled her close. The blackthorn dagger pulsed in the queen’s pale grasp, an absence of light, of hope.

With one swift move, the queen plunged the thorn into her handmaiden’s chest, stabbing her to the heart. Greenbriar let out a keening cry that rose up until the stars themselves shuddered. Shaped by the queen’s need, powered with fresh-spilled faerie blood, the Realm opened an inexorable path beneath the mortal girl’s feet.

Hollow and lifeless, Greenbriar’s body fell to the mute grasses, her pale hair spread out around her like snow. Goblins hastened to bear her away. The musicians struck up a dirge, and the queen tucked her deadly thorn back into her gown.

“Now,” she said in a voice hard as diamond, “we await our guest.”

Jennet drew in a breath of the night-deep air, chill with the faint memory of shuttered flowers. Above, the sky was pricked with stars, and the thin sliver of a crescent moon tangled in the dark branches of the oaks. She’d never been here before, and her heart sped with the lure of the new. The path wound between tall, night-shadowed trees, their branches gilded with silver light.

Her mage staff shed its usual blue glow, tingeing the shadows azure. Some night creature called, then went still. The wind shifted and for a moment she thought she heard music, flute and drum, borne on the air.

No question this was one of the most immersive levels of Feyland. She hadn’t felt the sensory input this keenly since her first adventures in-game. A smile sparked through her, moving up from her feet until it found her face, and stayed.

The path led her smoothly on—no briars or brambles to snare her feet, no sudden enemies leaping from the shadows. Ahead, she glimpsed flickers of violet flame. Music threaded between the trees, the flute and drum now joined by a fiddle in a tune that made her want to dance.

This was it. Something important lay ahead. The final challenge of Feyland.

Her smile faded. If it was, what happened when she defeated the last boss and finished the game?

Of course she’d roll a new character and experience it all over again, but nothing ever compared to that first time through.

Motes of light glimmered ahead, beckoning. Jennet set aside her bittersweet thoughts and went forward. Whatever happened, she was here now. She was ready.

The trees opened to form a clearing. In the center a garish purple bonfire burned, disjointed figures capering about it. Beneath the canopy of trees on one side, long tables were set, spread with delicacies. Candles in huge silver candelabra illuminated gem-crusted goblets and sharp-edged knives. Creatures from dream and nightmare feasted there, many of whom she recognized from the pages of Thomas’s book: sprites and banshees, goblins and phoukas.

Silken-winged creatures with sharp teeth swooped and darted above the crowd, and laughter chimed like bells. A trio of musicians played just beyond the tables, the music frothing and spinning beneath the sky. The moon had won free of the trees and now hung, a radiant scythe harvesting the dark.

Jennet took a step into the clearing, away from the shelter of the trees. Silence crashed down, like a door suddenly slamming. The fey folk turned toward her, their eyes avid.

Fear clogged Jennet’s throat. There was no way she could fight them all. But they made no move to unsheathe weapons or attack. From the nearby shadows, a spindly figure approached. Jennet lifted her staff, spells at her fingertips.

“Fair Jennet,” the creature creaked in a voice like long-dry wood. “Welcome to the Dark Court. Our queen awaits you.”

“Is it… safe?” The question caught in her throat.

The figure laughed. “The court is never safe. But the Dark Queen has given you leave to pass.”

His words broke the spell of silence binding the company. The musicians struck up again, and the fey folk turned back to their feasting, though Jennet could still see their feral glances and sly smiles turned her way.

“Come.” The creature gestured with oddly-jointed limbs, then led her around the bonfire.

At the far end of the clearing sat a throne of night-black vines And upon that throne…

The Faerie Queen.

Her black hair framed a pale face as hard and exquisite as ice. Her gown, made of tattered midnight, stirred in an unfelt breeze. Her eyes were deep pools of starlight and shadow, fathomless, promising everything—and nothing.

Jennet met the queen’s gaze. Her breath caught in her throat, burned her lungs, as though she had opened the freezer and accidentally taken a deep breath of frigid air.

Gasping, she tore her eyes away. Pain crimped her side. The queen was dangerous. Beyond dangerous. And this was Feyland’s final combat; Jennet felt it in her bones.

“Fair Jennet,” the queen said, the barest wisp of a smile on her beautiful, pitiless face. “You think to best me in battle?”

“I plan on it.” Jennet shook off the doubts, cold as snow, that settled on her shoulders.

“Very well,” the queen said. “I accept your challenge.”

Jennet couldn’t see any weapons on her opponent, and that dress was no substitute for armor. This was going to be a magical duel, then; spell-caster against spell-caster. She flexed her fingers around the smooth wood of her staff. Anticipation spiked through her. She could do this.

The fey folk left their feasting tables and encircled her and the queen in a loose ring. From the corner of her eye, Jennet saw red-eyed hounds and the shadow of antlers rising against the dark trees. She swallowed a shiver and focused back on the Dark Queen.

A figure stepped forward from the obsidian shadows behind the throne—a knight clad all in black, tall and forbidding. Jennet couldn’t contain the prickle of fear tightening her skin.

The Black Knight. If she had to fight him, she was in severe trouble.

He held his gauntleted fist high and grated out a single word. “Begin.”

It echoed eerily through the glade, and the fey folk let out a rough cheer. There was no one to cheer for Jennet.

Without hesitation, she tipped her staff and shot a bolt of mage-light at the queen. A sphere of shadow appeared, blocking Jennet’s attack and swallowing the fire into its dark depths. More spheres materialized and began floating toward her, called by the Dark Queen. Jennet ducked and wove, avoiding their deadly touch.

Lightning crackled from her staff, illuminating the clearing with shocking white light, but the queen evaded her bolts. Still, Jennet kept pressing the attack. The dark spheres were multiplying now, bobbing in the air on all sides. A low, menacing hum surrounded her as she tried to find a clear shot.

She couldn’t afford any mistakes—but the fight was pushing her to her limits. Worry nibbled at the edges of her concentration. She just had to watch for an opening… there. She took aim and sent another bolt crackling through the air.

White fire sizzled and Jennet heard the queen gasp. Yes! She could do it. She could beat this game. The first player ever to claim victory over Feyland.

A dark sphere brushed against her shoulder. Frost stabbed into her skin, sent numbness down her arm until she could barely hold onto her staff. She stumbled back, trying to regain the rhythm of the battle. Keep breathing. Keep fighting. But where was the queen? The place where her opponent had stood was now filled with twisting shadows.

Everything rippled, as though the clearing was made of cloth billowing in a sudden gust. Jennet heard high, chiming laughter as she fell backward...

And landed in an ornate chair set before a feasting table.
What?
She jumped up, heart racing, and knocked the edge of the table. A goblet sitting in front of her shook, sending a drop of deep red liquid to stain the white tablecloth.

“Sit down, Fair Jennet,” the queen said from her place across the table. “This is the next stage of our battle.”

Pale candles in thorny candelabra illuminated the feast. Their silver flames reflected in the queen’s fathomless eyes.

“You changed the rules! You can’t do that.” Jennet’s legs felt shaky as she edged back into her chair. She was so not prepared for this.

The queen laughed. It was the sound of ice shattering on a black lake. “Of course I can. This is my court. My realm. You are but a visitor. Please—drink.” She waved one delicate hand at the goblet.

“No, thanks.”

Jennet’s mouth said the words, but her hand reached out anyway and lifted the heavy silver goblet. A sweet, thick smell drifted from the cup. Roses and burnt sugar. The edge of metal touched her lips.

No. She was not going to do this. The queen might try to control their battle, but she could still fight back. Fingers trembling from effort, Jennet forced the goblet away. The air around her was sticky and nearly solid, like dough. She pushed against it, her breath coming in gasps, until at last the cup touched the table.

“Very well.” The queen’s voice was edged with frost. “If you disdain my hospitality, then you must answer a riddle.”

That seemed safer than drinking whatever was in the goblet. And the game wasn’t giving her a lot of other options. “A riddle? All right.”

The candles flared and the queen’s eyes glowed. “Listen then, and listen well, the answer to this riddle tell, or forfeit of thyself will be, and never more wilt thou be free.”

Jennet shivered. The queen’s voice was ominous, her words intoned with deep meaning. Whatever happened, it was clear that failing to answer the riddle carried a price. Jennet curled her fingers tightly into her palms and tried not to show the fear flickering through her.

“Ask me your riddle,” she said.

“As soon as it begins, it is ending. Without form, still it moves. When it is gone, it yet remains.” The queen smiled, sharp as a blade. “You have three guesses.”

“Ah…” Jennet’s mouth was dry. Her mind beat against the riddle like a bird trapped behind glass. Without taste or form. Something powerful, but insubstantial. “Is it the wind?”