Trix & the Faerie Queen

  The Spirit Sister ignored their banter. “State your name,” she said in that same gruff monotone.

  “I am Lizinia,” the golden girl replied. When the Spirit Sister did not speak further, Lizinia added, “Of the Colony of Cats.”

  “Very well, Lizinia of the Cats.” The sister nodded to Lizinia, her serious expression unchanged. “I will give you my brother’s bow if you can tell me what it is made of.”

  Like Trix, Lizinia’s approach to the riddle was logical. Unlike Trix, she spoke her thought process aloud. “A bow must be long and supple, so the material has to bend without breaking.” She stood and moved to Trix’s chair, examining its makeup as if it might provide her with some inspiration. “You are gods, so it must be something magic.” She ran her golden fingers along the Elder Wood. “But you are more than gods. You are Elemental gods. Which means that it must be something natural…but also something wonderful.”

  Trix was about to add to Lizinia’s thought process when something bit him. “Ow!” he cried, and instinctively put the injured finger in his mouth. Trebald curled himself around the carved arm of the Elder Wood chair and looked entirely too proud of himself. The brownie’s expression reminded Trix far too much of Papa Gatto.

  “If we get three chances, you’ll be next,” Trix said to the brownie with a mouthful of finger.

  Trebald yawned. “I have faith.”

  Muttering to herself, Lizinia paced her way back to the fireplace. The flames there still flickered cheerfully in a myriad of colors. “Spirits are invisible, so it could be something invisible…but magic could easily make something invisible as well. At the very least, I couldn’t imagine it would be something heavy. The bow would have to be light.”

  One of the logs in the fire chose that moment to split, falling to ash in a shower of colorful sparks. Trix looked to the Spirit Sister. Her hard expression had not changed…but she had raised an eyebrow.

  Lizinia snapped her fingers, which sounded nothing like a snap at all. “The bow would have to be light,” she repeated as she turned back to the table. “Mist and light and beautiful and natural and magical and sometimes invisible.”

  Trix furrowed his brow. Every word of the list she had just rattled off could have been used to describe Papa Gatto. Except that Trix would never have referred to Lizinia’s godfather as “beautiful.”

  Lizinia placed her hands on the table across from the Spirit Sister. “Your brother’s bow is a rain-bow.”

  The Spirit Sister…smiled. The expression changed her face from dour to beautiful. Trix suddenly felt a lot less frightened, and a lot more relieved.

  “And what would you use for arrows?” asked the Sister.

  “Something small and shiny and sharp…and also light.” Lizinia’s smile now matched the Sister’s. “Stars.”

  “Well done!” The Spirit Sister rose from the throne of the North Wind with her arms spread wide. She embraced Lizinia, kissing the golden girl on both cheeks. Trix tried not to appear too shocked by this shift in demeanor—Papa had told countless stories about the whims of the gods. Trebald, full of faith and stuffed with magical flowers, began to snore.

  “You remind me a little of my own sister,” the Spirit Sister said to Lizinia. “She thought her skin a burden, but it was her clever mind that won my brother.” She took Lizinia’s hands in hers. “Of course, he was the one who forced her to take the test. I could see the purity of her heart in her eyes the moment we met. As I see it in yours.”

  Trix bristled. Had the Sister not seen purity in his heart as well? And could they please get the bow and go to Faerie now?

  “Thank you.” Lizinia was not used to being lavished with such affection. As jealous as Trix should have been that she’d outwitted him, he could not find it in himself to be envious.

  The Spirit Sister walked to the mantle above the sprawling fireplace and reached into the mistwall. From it she withdrew a crystal bow that scattered hundreds of rainbows over the room as it caught the light from the fireplace. With it came a quiver of ebony arrows. The Sister slid one of them out to show that it was indeed tipped with a tiny, pointed star.

  The Spirit Sister helped Lizinia with the straps of the quiver and showed her the best way to carry the bow. “You have been found worthy, Lizinia of the Cats. I would be honored to call you sister.”

  Lizinia looked as if she were about to cry, but no tears—of water or gold—escaped her eyes. “The honor is mine,” she said, and the Sister embraced her once more.

  The Spirit Sister turned to Trix and embraced him as well. “Thank you, Trix Woodcutter, for bringing me both a hero and a sister. I will cherish this day for a lifetime.”

  “I’m only sorry I wasn’t your hero.” Trix looked at Lizinia, whose smile still beamed from ear to ear. “But not that sorry.”

  “But I cannot allow you to leave empty-handed. Please, accept these with my gratitude.” The Sister reached above the mantle again. This time she pulled from it a far more humble bow and a quiver of plain, wooden arrows. “There is no magic in this bow, but I suspect there is already enough magic in the young man who will use it.”

  “You may be right,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “A sister knows,” said the Spirit Sister. “Your own sister is looking for you. More than that, she needs you. And so I have delivered you to her.”

  “You’ve…delivered us?” asked Trix. “How?”

  The Spirit Sister shrugged. “My brother is the East Wind. Blowing us westward cost him little effort. Your paths will cross here. Look for a wagon.” With that, the room and the table and the cloud-mountain began to dissolve around them. Lizinia quickly scooped Trebald up off the Elder Wood throne before it disappeared completely.

  “Goodbye, my sister,” they heard the goddess call. “Goodbye, my friends. May the winds of good fortune blow ever at your back.”

  5

  The Return of Saturday Woodcutter

  The Hall of the Four Winds lifted like the fog it was, leaving Trix and his companions in a forest glen. It looked very much like every other forest glen they had passed through since leaving Rose Abbey, though the trees here boasted normal autumn colors, amplified with an amber hue from the setting sun. Trix wondered how much time had passed while they were in the company of the Spirit Sister. Gods had a way of affecting time as well as space.

  “Do you see her?” asked Lizinia.

  Trix grimaced into the tree line. No deer. No Saturday. No true idea where and when they were beyond the god’s vague description. “Perhaps her path has not crossed ours yet.”

  “Time for lunch, then. Yes, yes.” Trebald’s voice sounded muffled—Trix and Lizinia looked down to see the brownie’s hind legs and stub of a tail sticking out of one of the packs.

  “At least the Sister was kind enough to deliver our things along with us,” said Lizinia. “Wherever this may be.”

  Trix was glad to see their bags, though carrying them along with their bows and quivers would be a tad more complicated. Lizinia’s mention of the Spirit Sister distracted Trix. He turned to his companion and put his hands on his hips. “So…does being the sister of a god make you a god now?”

  She opened her mouth, closed it again, tilted her head to the left, and then to the right. “Godsister sounds more appropriate, doesn’t it? More like a ceremonial thing. Sort of like Papa Gatto. His being my godfather doesn’t make me a cat.”

  “Goddaughter and godsister.” Trix shook his head slowly. “Quite the godfamily you have there. And a god’s weapon, to boot! I don’t know… Papa always said, if it walks like a god and sounds like a god…”

  Gold scraped gold as Lizinia folded her arms across her chest. “If I am a god, does that mean I outrank you?”

  Trix pretended to think about it. “Hmm. I’d say yes if I were just a prince, but I’m a prince and a prophecy.”

  “Equals, then?”

  “Equals it is.” Trix shook the hand Lizinia extended. “Why don’t you stay here with Trebald. I’ll scou
t around and see if I can find a road or path or an animal friend who can lead us to a road or a path.” He’d also look for something else to eat, since Trebald seemed to be finishing off what little they had left.

  Lizinia smirked. “You want to try out your new bow.”

  “Well…” Trix had learned from Mama that deception was no longer useful once caught. “Okay, yes. That too. But I hope you’ll wait for me before you try out yours.”

  “I will,” she said. “Though I may have you give me a few lessons with yours first. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “Deal,” said Trix, and he moved deeper into the forest.

  He jogged out a ways, looking for signs of…anything. He found a patch or two of edible greens—including those dandelions Lizinia didn’t care for—but they did little to sate his hunger. Not long after, he stumbled across some thick bushes with a few ripe berries left unpicked, which did more. It was still autumn then, and the colorful leaves weren’t just stained with leftover magic. He just wasn’t sure if it was the same autumn, or an autumn a hundred years from when they’d left. Of course, if they’d been in the Hall of the Four Winds for a hundred years with fey magic still trapped under the Hill, there probably wouldn’t have been a world to come back to…never mind a world with berry bushes.

  Save us, Trix Woodcutter. Save us all.

  The urgency of the Faerie Queen’s plea pushed him onward.

  He marked his way through the forest with arrows. He worked on his pull and his stance and the angle of his elbow, so as not to bruise his forearm bloody with string slap. The bow felt good in his hands; the touch of Elder Wood was like home. This was the bow he would have chosen if he’d had the will of a god: carved from the most powerful trees of his home, as well as anything Peter might be able to fashion with his magic knife. But even without god magic (or the correct answer to the riddle), the Sister had still given him the bow his heart had longed for.

  Oh, the whims of the gods.

  Trix had no godmother or nameday gift himself, but he did have seven very powerful sisters, and now a boon from a god. The lingworm had said—it felt like ages ago now—that the prophecy that had named him had been around before the gods became gods. Trix had teased Lizinia back in the clearing, but he now wondered in honest just exactly how one became a god. Not that he’d ever want the job.

  “I say, your accuracy could use some improvement.”

  Trix spun around once, twice, trying to find the source of the voice. The third time, he saw the tortoise hidden in the pile of dried leaves.

  “Good day to you, sir,” said Trix. “Might you be able to tell me where I am? In human terms?” Trix learned long ago to specify—animals often gave directions that included landmarks only animals could see. Or smell. Or hear.

  “North and west of Rose Abbey,” the tortoise replied slowly. “I believe that is the closest human-hole.” Human-holes were houses, villages, inns, hovels, or anything else an animal didn’t have a word for.

  “I am looking for my sister. Can you tell me, have you seen her?”

  “Can’t say that I have,” said the tortoise with great condescension. “What does she look like?”

  Trix thought back to Trebald’s incredibly accurate—if slightly unkind—description. “Like an angry, fair-haired giant.”

  “Sorry,” said the tortoise. “No giants here. You must travel even farther west for that.”

  Farther west. To Faerie. He really needed to find Saturday, and soon.

  “Thank you just the same,” said Trix. He collected his arrows and moved on. He found another sizable tree and nocked his arrow…but then relaxed when he noticed two sparrows on a low branch there.

  “Hello,” Trix greeted the birds. “I am looking for my sister. Can you tell me, have you seen her?”

  “No humans, no humans,” twittered the birds.

  “Save you,” chirped the first. “Save you.”

  “Slightly human,” chirped the second.

  “Terrible archer,” chirped the first.

  “Gee, thanks,” said Trix. Birds were known for their gossip. Trix wished fewer people trusted their skewed versions of the truth.

  The wind picked up and the birds lifted their wings.

  “Save us,” chirped the first as it fluttered away.

  “Save us all,” chirped the second.

  Trix wasn’t entirely sure if he had heard the birds correctly—echoes of the Faerie Queen’s vision had been swimming unceasingly around his head since he’d seen her. He sent two arrows into the trunk of the tree to his left: one high, one low. The third did not have enough force behind it—it simply hit the tree and fell to the ground.

  “I’d find another line of work if I were you,” said a squirrel.

  “My arm is tired,” said Trix. “I’m actually looking for my sister. Have you seen her?”

  “Are you going to shoot her?”

  “Not at first. But she can be a bit surly.”

  “Mmm,” said the squirrel. “I have a sister like that.”

  “Is there a path through these woods? Maybe something that runs westward to Faerie? My sister would be on a road like that.”

  “If she is, may the gods help her,” said the squirrel. “There’s a wolf on that path. No mistaking that smell, no sir.”

  Saturday was strong enough to hold her own, but one wolf usually meant a pack of wolves, and the Spirit Sister had said that Saturday needed him. Everyone needed him lately, it seemed. “Which direction?”

  “That way,” pointed the squirrel. “But I wouldn’t go there. No sir, not for all the nuts in the world.”

  “Thank yoooooou!” Trix called behind him as he sped into the forest.

  He stumbled across the path so quickly that he almost couldn’t stop. It had two bare lines, well worn from wheeled conveyances. Had the forest been cleared for better passage, it might even be called a road. But the fey were particular about their foliage, so any “road” running into Faerie would eventually become so increasingly dense as to be unpassable.

  It was difficult for Trix to get his bearings in the twilight. Fireflies began to rise up, darting in and out of the bushes. Which way? He closed his eyes and called once more on that dormant animal part of him, daring himself to detect that scent of wolf on the wind. Other than the chill in the air and the sweat from his running, he smelled nothing. Saturday would either come upon him at any moment, or she had already passed him. How was he supposed to know which?

  And then suddenly the air was filled with cursing more colorful than the Spirit Sister’s fire.

  “Saturday,” Trix said beneath his breath and took off at a run. The voices grew louder as he approached and he slowed his pace.

  “I could run you through right now.” Saturday sounded angry. Furious, even. She was definitely talking to someone.

  “I wish you’d wait,” said the someone. A male someone. His voice was deep and soft, as if this someone possessed infinite patience. Anyone traveling with Saturday would need infinite patience.

  There were more words, even softer. Trix stayed just out of sight and forced himself to be as still as possible while he strained to make out the conversation. The last sentence ended with, “You love me.”

  Please, Trix scoffed in his mind. Saturday doesn’t love men, she clobbers them with swords.

  “You loved me first,” said Saturday.

  “No way.” Trix spoke before he could stop himself. Well, that had done it. Surely he had given himself away. After a moment of silence, Trix poked his head out of the foliage. Saturday and her someone were now hugging. Tightly.

  And that will be enough of that, he thought to himself before stepping out of his hiding place and applauding. They certainly couldn’t miss him now.

  Saturday stepped out of the embrace, but the someone didn’t let her go far. Had she been…crying? No. Couldn’t be. Saturday Woodcutter did a lot of things, but she did not cry. And if this someone had made her cry, then Trix would just shoot him wit
h one of his arrows. He’d only promised the Stag that he wouldn’t shoot animals.

  She looked taller, his giant sister, as if that were possible. Then again, he’d gotten taller too, according to Lizinia. The long, bright blonde hair that had always fallen in a plait down her back was gone now in favor of a shorter style—cropped close to the nape and slightly longer than chin-length in the front. It suited her.

  He did not have to run to her, for she’d already swept him up in a bear hug worthy of Papa. The bowstring bit hard into his breastbone and the strap of the quiver cut into his neck, but he didn’t care. He did, however, care about the giant sword in her hand. She might be invincible, but he wasn’t.

  “Watch it, sister.”

  Saturday backed away, apologizing. As soon as she’d sheathed her sword Trix caught her up in a hug, kissing both cheeks. After all the trouble he’d put her through, there was nothing she needed to apologize for. And she had been crying.

  Saturday’s companion introduced himself as Peregrine. He was taller than Trix, but shorter than Saturday, and had a better sense of fashion than both of them put together. He was the spitting image of a tribesmen of the north from Papa’s stories, apart from the elf shot in his black hair. The streak almost looked blue in the fading light.

  “I’m Trix,” he said as they shook hands. “The one who got her into this mess.”

  “I fell in love with your sister in the middle of this mess,” Peregrine replied.

  “We both have stories to tell,” said Saturday. There was a faraway look in her eye.

  Peregrine took her hand. “I just hope you’re better at telling stories than your sister,” he said to Trix.

  In one move and one sentence, Peregrine had managed to convey just how much he really knew about Saturday. Trix’s warrior sister was not one to shun affection, but she did not seek it out. Nor did she draw attention to it; if Trix hadn’t seen Peregrine take her hand, he might never have noticed.

  Peregrine also seemed to possess intimate knowledge of his sister’s atrocious storytelling. In a family of tale swappers , Saturday Woodcutter was tone deaf. At some time—perhaps even multiple times—Saturday had been at ease around Peregrine long enough to string more than ten words together.