Descent into the Depths of the Earth

Clan Sable had an eye for spectacular locations, and in a
court jaded by centuries of tinsel and frippery, the talent had a certain dark
appeal. At the very least, their choices would spark off a frenzy of
one-upmanship as the other faerie clans sought to offer wilder, madder thrills.

Acheron had been a choice of genius. On this plane of
existence, the entire universe seemed to be trying to smash itself to pieces. A
vast infinity of air suspended countless turning cubes of iron. The sepia-tinted
atmosphere sizzled with electricity as lightning arched insane shapes between
the cubes, leaving brilliant: violet trails scorched on the eye. The cubes were
tiny worlds, and the worlds tumbled like dice. Here and there the cubes
collided, the noise ringing through space like titanic bells. Fragments of iron
and helpless little bodies went tumbling free into space while far away, wars
and violence went ever on. The place stank of lightning strike, of the
hammer-and-forge reek of the smashing cubes, and the rusty stench of blood.

The Seelie Court was unconcerned. They were the faerie, the
deadly sword point of a secret world. Although Queen Titania and the sylvan
powers held state in distant planes, they used the faerie as their hands, their
eyes, and their ears. Sinking deeper and deeper into their introverted world,
the sylvan powers now scarcely knew fantasy from reality and left the power of
the Seelie Court in the hands of the clans.

Faerie control over the sylvan powers was absolute, and with
power came intrigue—plots and plans, schemes and dreams. Wrapped in glorious
isolation, the Seelie Court posed and schemed in a frenzy of activity that
filled the centuries with the comforting illusion of activity.

Sitting languidly upon outcrops of jagged iron and rust,
today’s gathering had eyes only for the conflict being fought at the bottom of a
crater just below them. Two combatants, both male faeries, fought and posed in
the battlefield. Small, lithe, and winged like dragonflies, the creatures
battled viciously with sword and magic. The duelists were slim and elegant, with
clothing gleaned from a dozen exotic planes. Holding absurdly thin little
swords, they stood and flung spell after spell at one another in a display full
of flash and glory but rather empty of blood. Spellfire lit and stained
imperfections in the metal of the crater, making it glow brilliant green,
lavender, and orange. Here and there a faerie gave an appreciative patter of
applause, while mortal servants poured out tinctures of faerie wine.

Today’s duel served as a welcome little diversion. Ushan,
Lord of Clan Sable, sat beneath a fan waved by one of his servants. It amused
him these days to be attended by female orcs, their bestial forms draped in
courtly finery. A man much in love with his own image, Ushan raised his glass to
another faerie, who wandered over, keeping his eyes upon the fight.

Ushan’s comrade drew himself up on a stool that had been
covered with a leucrotta skin. He accepted wine from a serving girl and said,
“My Lord Ushan.”

“My Lord Faen.” Silver haired, Ushan had today dressed in
robes of animated flame. “I trust Acheron suits you well?”

“Well enough, well enough.” Lord Faen affected spectacles and
a pointed beard, considering himself to be the greatest scholar of the Seelie
Court. He gave a quiet flutter of his wings. “Can you recall the reason for this
duel?”

“The usual—insults, women…” Lord Ushan seemed more
interested in watching the slow tumble of a distant iron cube than following the
duel. “Who remembers?”

“The participants, perhaps?” Carefully watching the nearest
duelist, Faen slowly stroked at his antennae. “Your man Tarquil has quite a
touch. Do you have hopes for him?”

Watching the boy, Ushan appreciatively sipped from his glass.
“His technique has improved. I believe him to be the best duelist in the lower
court.”

“He is your sisters son?” Lord Faen steepled his fingers,
carefully watching the two faeries below as they stabbed spell and counter spell
at one another. “He likes killing too much.”

“Not a bad thing in a noble. We see too many milksops in the
current generation, too little thirst for blood.”

Ushan relaxed. All about him spread the Seelie Court, the
nobility of faerie. Small, winged figures—some remaining elegantly in form and
others changing shape as they pleased—lay scattered languidly about. The
inhabitants of Acheron had wisely fled. Few creatures ever mistook a faerie for
one of the lesser forest folk and escaped to tell the tale.

In the crater, spell followed spell. The two battling faeries
flew and circled—invisible one moment, then outlined by detection spells in the
next. Etiquette demanded non-lethal spells, yet Ushan’s nephew stabbed these
spells home with vicious intensity. He slammed his opponent back against the
ground, sending the faerie skidding along hot rusted metal.

Lord Faen narrowed his eyes as he watched the combatants.
“Splendid isolation is an illusion. We have wasted our intellects on self
aggrandizement.”

“A superior being is allowed aggrandizement.” Ushan shot a
dark glance toward Lord Faen. “Our intelligence makes us strong.”

“The mark of intelligence is the ability to adapt to unseen
changes.”

“The mark of intelligence is to prevent the occurrence of any
unseen changes.” Ushan’s lavender eyes sparked. “Events are merely sculptures of
action made in the medium of time. We can control and shape events to meet our
own needs. We are not mere butterflies to be blown along in the winds of any
random storm.”

Matching cold anger with disdain, Lord Faen smoothed his
beard. “We have already produced one dark goddess from our ranks. She too
believed that events could be controlled.”

“All it won her was an eternal prison.” Ushan made a sharp
motion with his hand. The Faerie Queen of Wind and Woe was not a topic for open
discussion. “Clan Nightshade saw to it, and good riddance to her… and
them.”

A heavy sigh escaped Lord Faen as he sat back in his seat. He
took more wine and swirled the amber liquid slowly in its glass as he said, “We
must speak of Clan Nightshade.”

Ushan slowly turned a frosty gaze upon the other faerie.
“They played for power, and they lost. The lesson has kept the lesser houses in
line.” Once the greatest of faerie houses, Clan Nightshade had been exiled for
centuries. “Clan Nightshade is no more.”

Faen speared Ushan with an acidic, mocking gaze. “Clan
Nightshade is alive. Your Clan Sable is aware of it. We are
all
aware of
it. Only a fool would remain ignorant of a potential ally—or a potential enemy.”

“They are no longer of the Court.” Lean and elegant, Lord
Ushan held out his glass to his towering serving girls. “They have adapted to
other worlds. Why should we care for what Nightshade does?”

“Clan Nightshade now has a great deal of experience in the
outer worlds—in the material plane, in particular. Experience and knowledge are
weapons,
Ushan. Without weapons, the universe may overtake us, intelligence
or no.” Lord Faen set his glass aside. “Clan Nightshade clipped the wings of the
Queen of Wind and Woe. It is a skill we may soon need again.”

“Faen! We have no need to go chasing demons in the outside
world!”

Faen tapped his index fingers carefully together and replied,
“Yes. We are all too skilled at breeding them from within.” The faerie tugged
straight his long goatee. “If we do not curb the habit, it will be the death of
us.”

In the crater below, Ushan’s nephew scored a hit, smashing
his opponent from his feet. Ignoring the duel, Faen rose to leave. Ushan
immediately shot to his feet, his wings spread in fury.

“Clan Nightshade are outsiders! They are not of the body!”

“Then we need ties.” Faen turned away. “A means of welcoming
them truly back into the family of faerie.”

“It cannot be done!”

“It
must
be done. The council meets before the Queen
Titania tomorrow. I shall propose exactly this: that Nightshade be brought back
from its exile in the wilds.”

Ushan flexed his fists only to feel Faen’s voice derisively
caressing his rage.

“Truly, Ushan, turn your intelligence to the task. A new age
is being born! Faerie must survive it.” Lord Faen rose into the air. “We need
tools,
Ushan. We need weapons.”

The faerie scholar faded into invisibility and then departed.
Left alone with his serving girls, Lord Ushan sat in stony silence. In the
crater below, Tarquil wiped his blade above his kill and looked up to meet his
uncle’s eyes. His thin mouth twisted into a smile.

Autumn had stripped the maple trees of their green leaves,
carpeting the forest in a deep, damp carpet of flame red and russet brown. The
smell of damp and mold was everywhere, strangely fresh and enervating.

A man dressed in armor made of black dragon scales plodded
silently along the road that meandered through the trees. A shimmering black
hell hound pelt hung down his back, the canine’s head sitting atop the man’s
helmet and grinning madly with bright white fangs. The man’s hand rested upon a
huge sword that jutted through his belt. Heavy hiking boots, a backpack, a coil
of rope… it was the equipment of a man who marched fast and slept rough.
Shaven headed, powerful, and suspicious, the Justicar marched his tireless
march, his eyes watching the forest for the slightest stir of life.

Hovering gaily in mid air beside him, wearing an outfit to
make a mother scream and a father reach for weapons, Escalla the faerie whistled
a tune. Two feet tall, her long blonde hair shining straight and free, the
faerie travelled without a worry in the world.

Along the road behind them rumbled a mule cart driven by a
little man with an axe-beak nose. On the cart hung a banner reading: TRANSPORTS
TO ADVENCHER. Polk the teamster drew in deep breaths of satisfaction as he
looked about, as if the forest were a personal construction project in which he
took huge pride. Beside the cart padded Enid the sphinx—brown haired, smothered
in freckles, and enjoying the dappled forest sun immensely.