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thirty-eight

Fortress Fortitude

O n pixie wings, they fluttered, swooped and glided their way along open plains, crags and moors. Heather flitted from one object to another, whenever the opportunity arose. Sticks and sparse tall blades of grass became her resting posts, in an effort to spare her wings and back.

The trio trailed each other from rock to weed, to rotting stem. The shade of the forest slipped away to once tidy rows of cultivated land, in various stages of rot and molder, progressing to completely barren fields.

Great trees that had withstood the ages, lay upended by the roots. So waterlogged they could no longer stand.

The sun lazily dipped below the horizon, the sky enveloping into the purple and ink of twilight.

An orb of Skye’s green light floated into the dark, lighting the way to the half rock wall enclosing the castle garden.

Skye, Heather and Rhoden rested on its stone surface, their profiles nothing more than three, silly, little moths to the human eye.

Heather regarded the vast gardens, her former home.

Nearly unrecognizable, with bare, leafless stalks in various states of decomposition.

The meticulously designed, tended, and flourishing beds were now fetid mud pits.

The palace loomed ahead, lantern-like. Many of the Lords and Ladies’ quarters lit from within, bleeding into the ebony night.

Unable to wait any longer, Heather bound for the kitchen window ledge, swooping over the former vegetable patch, willing the detritus restored. Greenery sprouted in her wake. She found her footing at the casement, placed her hands against the pane and peered inside.

Opposite sat the propagations she had gathered, potted in earthen bowls. Skinny stalks leaned toward the glass, seeking the sleeping sun’s nourishment. Skye and Rhoden flew to her side, flanking her.

Heather studied the sprouts, centering her magick at them, willing them to flourish. Pink light rushed from her hands, but they struck the windowpane, before refracting and shooting backwards over their heads. Skye ducked just in time to avoid being walloped.

“Glass acts as a shield, save your efforts until we enter the room,” whispered Skye.

Dinner hour was upon them, Mae and the crew were bustling around the kitchens as boisterous music trickled in from the great hall.

Tarragon was under the impression Jess was missing from court, but Heather refused to leave the castle without gaining her own assessment.

After all, Jessa was a stranger to the pixie.

Mayhap he overlooked her friend or confused her with someone else.

She watched the familiar cadence of chores within, not finding a honey hued head of curls among them.

“Any sign of Tar or Jessa?” inquired Rhoden. Skye braced himself against the window to gain a better view.

Heather shook her head. “Not in the kitchens. I’d like to inspect my old chamber down that hall. Mayhap she penned a note or left a clue behind.”

They could easily slip through the kitchen doorway Mae habitually propped open. Rhoden flew over to the stoop. Heather and Skye joined hands and fluttered over. They followed Rhoden inside, where they huddled behind the door.

“Beware the mouser.” Heather whispered, before slinking out from their hiding spot, aiming for the kitchen’s tabletop workspace.

She’d rather not run into the cat who hated her.

She rubbed the top of her palm that at last had healed from the feline’s vicious swipe.

Wings, weak and tender with ache, she managed to bob and hover up to the worktable, ducking behind a canister of flour.

Crouched low, she wiped her forehead as her wings drooped limp.

The courtier’s rowdiness carried thunderously into the chamber. Male voices slurred over the notes of the lyre. Mae walked over to the workstation, worrying over the flagon clutched in her hands. Heather held her breath.

“They’re going to drink the last of the mead, and then whatever will we do?”

A pang of distress shadowed Heather’s heart.

She longed to tell the elder woman what had become of her.

But she could not risk Skye and Rhoden, without first discussing it with them.

Mae appeared as if she had aged ten years since Heather fled from court.

Heather needed to do something. She determined to heal the garden before returning to the Wandering Wood.

Mae set the flagon down and strode over to the open door.

Skye and Rhoden joined Heather in the canister’s shadow as she assessed her next destination.

Heather gripped Skye’s hand and whispered, “To the broom.” They flew as one to the besom leaning against the far wall, ducking behind it, before slipping into the gloomy hall.

Human sized, it wasn’t more than thirty paces, but each flap of her wings seared with agony.

“Heather, I can carry ye,” Skye suggested. And Heather was in too much pain to deny the offer. He scooped her up and whisked her down the corridor, as she called out the way.

With his help, they fluttered before her sleeping chamber.

“We’ll have to slip under the door here.”

Rhoden lowered his wings flat to his back, dropped to his knees, and proceeded to shuffle forward on his belly. Wiggling like the insect his glamor influenced human eyes perceived him to be.

“Ye go next,” Skye insisted. “Stay vigilant of yer surroundings.”

Heather followed Rhoden’s lead and scooted underneath on her stomach, finding the wooden surface abrasive as it scraped across her back and wings.

Her dress snagged on its rough plane as she crawled through.

Dirt was caked into well-worn grooves of the rugged floor below.

Rhoden helped her along by pulling her free with her hands.

She stood, wiped down her skirts, and bent to help Skye.

Their pixie glow illuminated the four dank walls.

It was bare and hollow. How had she never noticed how cold this room was?

There wasn’t a single sign of comfort. And she had been so grateful for this sad sleeping chamber, these mere scraps.

There was no sign or evidence of the two women who previously occupied the space.

It was as if Heather herself had never been there.

Heather fluttered over to where their mats used to lay, but nothing was left behind.

“This is what ye called home?” asked Rhoden, eying the scant quarters. Skye’s palms tightened into fists at his sides, and a quiet snarl passed his lips.

She’d outgrown this chamber.

This castle.

This existence.

She reflected on the changes in her life since imbibing the cursed mushroom and her decision to leave the human court.

Heather only nodded. Her mind muddled with where else Jessa could be.

“I suppose we could visit the dungeons?” she proposed. “There’s only one entrance, on the exterior. On the opposite quadrant of the castle. Mayhap, luck will be on our side, and we can escape through an open window.” One by one, they slipped back underneath the chamber door.

“Lead the way,” said Skye. Heather bobbed up and down in the air as the muscles in her back pinched, fluttering further into the corridor, Skye’s magical orb, a floating beacon in the dark.

Her strength waned. She had trouble keeping a steady height.

She fought her own body, with each flap of her wings, forcing it to make it a bit further.

A loud yowl barreled from down the hallway. Concentration broken, her flight faulted, flinging her into a tailspin, before she was able to rebound higher with a crippling pain running down her spine. Skye glanced back, then hurtled over to her. Fear in his eyes.

He looped his arm with hers at the elbow. “Make haste!” Heather fought the urge to look back, fearing what she might find.

Skye swooped up behind Heather and gathered her in his embrace, they catapulted towards the rafters. Heather held tight but made the mistake of looking down. Her eyes widened as they narrowly avoided a wild swipe of deadly claws. Fee hissed as they fluttered higher, beyond her reach.

“Go!” Skye bellowed to Rhoden.

The feline charged. With heaving breaths, he hovered and whirled on the cat. Striking quickly, jade magick enveloped Fee, shrinking her until she was the size of an ant. In a heartbeat, Skye spun and zipped towards the great hall.

“That should buy us some time. She won’t revert until morn.” The tiny cat continued its pursuit, unaware of its temporary stature. They slipped out a gaping window.

Heather’s pain was at a breaking point. She tried in vain to lift her wings. “That was close,” she admitted between heavy breaths. She unlatched the spare tonic from her belt, gulping three long consecutive swigs before finishing off the canteen. The creeping fear of failing Skye hounding her.

Her taut muscles went lax, the spasms and stinging dissipating as the elixir took effect while Skye conveyed her along the exterior castle wall.

They found the dungeon door ajar, the shadows deep. A musk of foul excrement and stale fear burned Heather’s nose. The hopelessness of past prisoners seeped into her bones. The floor was unfinished, now a dark, swirling, muck from the flooded exterior doorway.

Flying past empty cell after empty cell, with no sign of Jessa, Heather’s gaze landed on the sole occupants in the corner holding.

One of the male’s fine brocaded jacket and vest was at odds with the mud drenching it.

No telling how long he had been down here.

He peered at them spellbound, as his sight trailed their radiant light.

Heather recognized his face as they drew near.

Lord Langley was rotting in all his finery.

Had his presumed indiscretion with the queen cast him out of favor of the king?

Heather, Skye’s and Rhoden’s moth glamor held true.

He exclaimed, “Luna Moths!” Before he proffered his hand through the iron bars, wishing the famed beings would take refuge upon it.

Heather froze. Goosebumps broke out across her skin.

That voice. It was the very same she heard conversing over the miniature castle at the last banquet.

The one who self-confessed poisoning the king’s meal.

Matching his voice with his face and title, sent her thoughts spinning.

Had there been truth to the rumors around court concerning an affair between Langley and the queen?

Another figure emerged from the shadows. The traveling bard approached the iron bars next to the Lord. His knowing eyes glistened, reflecting the pixie’s glowing light. This stranger wasn’t new to the otherworldly. His sight pierced through their glamours.

“My Lady, grant me your favor and free me from this cage.” His magical voice barely a whisper. It took a heartbeat for Heather to realize he addressed her. Lord Langley peered at the bard as if he were mad, speaking to a trio of moths.

The bard’s freedom was something she wished to bestow, but how could she help him and not the cruel beast beside him?

“Skye, this man is one of my poisoners. He spoke of his plans with a mystery woman! His voice sparked a memory.” Skye glared at Lord Langley. He lunged at Langley’s face, thrusting an orb of magick at him. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head. He collapsed in a walloping heap, rendered asleep.

“I’d shrink him, but that would be an escape.

Better that he would rot here in this dungeon.

” said Skye. The bard huffed a laugh. Heather fluttered over to the cell’s lock, considering it.

Hand aloft, she gazed down at it, willing her magick corporeal.

It flickered there like a flame, and she urged it into the locks’ hollow. With a click, the latch broke free.

“Please secure the bolt behind you,” she requested.

A smile curled on the bard’s lips as he nodded his compliance.

He swung the cell door wide and stepped free from the enclosure.

Heather bobbed in the air, aiming for the support of the horizontal bars.

But the handsome singer held out a hand for her to perch upon. So, she did.

His voice like music, he asked, “May I have the honor of escorting your party? I have two shoulders at your service.” He inclined his head.

Skye growled. And the bard chuckled under his breath. Heather blushed, saying, “I wouldn’t want you to risk it.”

“May I convey the three of you to the courtyard, then?”

Heather peeked at Skye, who shrugged and fluttered over to the man’s shoulder, lowering himself to it with a thud. Heather saddled up to him and Rhoden sat on the left.

True to his word, the bard walked them free of the dank holdings, skimmed the outer flank of the castle wall and into the heart of the courtyard before they bid him farewell.