Christopher Golden - The Nimble Man

"Believe me, commander, I am aware that I may not be welcome here. And I would never have entered Faerie unless circumstances were dire," Conan Doyle explained. "Allow me to pass into your great city so that I may warn your King and his Seelie Court of the impending danger."

The son of Niamh-sidhel narrowed his gaze, his gleaming black eyes studying Conan Doyle. At length, the commander turned to his soldiers and raised his long, pale arm, bracelets of rock and wood clattering against one another. The Lhiannan-shee tensed, ready to respond to their commander's signal. He showed them a balled fist, and then opened his hand, his incredibly long fingers splayed wide.

They responded immediately, the melodious sounds of Faerie spell-casting filling the air. Conan Doyle watched as their hands weaved intricate shapes, each an integral piece of the magick that was being cast. It took but seconds for one of the gnarled knots in the bark of the great tree to begin to grow larger, and larger still. The thick bark moaned and popped as it was magickally reconfigured, and soon they were looking at a tunnel through to the other side.

"My thanks," Conan Doyle said with a bow of his head.

The commander of the Lhianna-shee responded in kind. "The sentries will escort you the remainder of the way where you will speak with the Lady Ceridwen."

The mere mention of her name gave Conan Doyle a spasm of pain. He had hoped to avoid any contact with Ceridwen. He had hurt her more than enough and did not want to cause her any further grief.

"I mean no disrespect to the great lady, but my errand here is most dire. It should be brought to the attention of King Finvarra."

The commander gazed longingly through the opening in the tree. "I am afraid that is impossible, Conan Doyle from the Blight."

Conan Doyle felt another spark of panic. The Lhiannan-shee again deployed, the king unable to speak with him; something was very wrong here.

"Then at the least allow me to speak with the one who leads the Seelie Court," he asked, struggling to hide his frustration.

"And you shall," the warrior agreed, signaling to the sentries.

"Many thanks to you, son of Niamh-sidhel," Conan Doyle said as he followed his escorts into the tunnel's entrance. It was damp inside the great tree, the ceiling dripping with sweetly scented moisture. Conan Doyle paused and turned to glance back at the commander. The other Lhiannan-shee were curiously watching Conan Doyle, this stranger to their worlds, as he moved through the dripping darkness. "And who now leads the Seelie Court?"

"Why, the Lady Ceridwen, of course," the commander replied.

Conan Doyle felt his pulse quicken and his throat go dry. Something fluttered in his gut.

"Oh my," he said aloud as his escorts took him firmly by his shoulders and he was urged deeper into the tunnel.

From the darkness of the tunnel they emerged into the light, and Conan Doyle had to shield his eyes, for the sun of this world shone brightly upon the splendor that was the kingdom of Faerie. He heard the snap and creak of their tunnel passage closing behind them, but could not pull his eyes from the fabulous view that lay before him. Though he had seen the forest citadel of King Finvarra many times, and even lived within its abundant halls, he still marveled at its magnificence.

Nudged from his reverie by his escorts, Conan Doyle left the shadows of the great tree and proceeded down an open hillock to an elaborate suspension bridge that would allow access to the fabulous settlement nestled in the breathtaking valley before them.

Faerie legend claimed that the kingdom, and all its intricate structures, had been made from the desiccated remains of a long, forgotten god. As Conan Doyle and his Fey companions crossed the great bridge and the buildings loomed closer, Conan Doyle could think of no reason to doubt this ancient tale. The citadel of the royal family rose up from the center of the kingdom, its high, pointed spires the color of polished bone. There was an organic look to the place, all straight lines and rounded curves. His memories did not do it justice.

The trio came to an abrupt stop at the end of the bridge, before an intimidating gate that very well could have been made from the ribs of some gigantic deity. Conan Doyle gazed between the slats of the gate to the courtyard beyond, and saw that there was no sign of life. If his memory served him correctly, this was highly unusual, for the courtyard served as a marketplace for the citizens of the kingdom, and usually thrived with activity.

Conan Doyle turned to his escorts. "Why is it so quiet? Where are the Fey?"

They ignored his question. "Our responsibility is fulfilled," the more talkative of the pair said with little emotion, and they both turned back down the length of the bridge, leaving him alone.

"How will I get inside?" Conan Doyle asked their departing forms.

"That is not our concern," the sneering sentry said over his shoulder.

The sound of a bolt sliding home distracted Conan Doyle, and he turned back to the gate. To its right was a door of thick, light-colored wood, its pale surface marbled with streaks of a darker grain. The door began to slowly open outward, and he watched as a hooded figure, clad in robes of rich, dark blue, with golden brocade about the sleeves and hem, emerged.

"I am here to speak with she who leads the Seelie Court," Conan Doyle said formally, squinting his eyes in an attempt to discern the features of the one whose identity remained hidden within the darkness of the hood.

"We know why you have come, Arthur Conan Doyle." The mysterious figure reached up with pale, gnarled hands to pull back his hood. "The land has warned us of your return, and the grim tidings you bring."

From a copse of nearby trees a murder of crows rose into the air, screaming their panicked caws. Nothing remained secret for long in the realm of Faerie. Even before he had removed the hood, Conan Doyle had recognized the voice of the king's grand vizier, Tylwyth Teg.

"Greetings, Tylwyth Teg, it has been a long time." Conan Doyle bowed his head.

The vizier's hair was long, wisp-thin and white, like the delicate webs of a spider upon his ancient skull. It drifted about his head and face, caressed by the gentle breezes that rose up from the valley. As always, Tylwyth wore a scowl of distaste. He had never approved of Conan Doyle's presence in Faerie, and vehemently opposed any attempt to teach a human the powerful magicks of the Fey.

"The wound has not yet healed from when last you were among us," Tylwyth snarled, his cadaverous features giving him the appearance of an animated corpse.

"I would not have returned, but for the danger that threatens both our realms," Conan Doyle summoned as much reverence as he was able. "Please, I must be allowed to speak with your mistress."

Tylwyth Teg again raised his hood, then turned and passed through the doorway from which he came. "You come too late, son of man," he hissed cryptically as Conan Doyle followed. "For catastrophe has already struck our kingdom."

The vizier shuffled across the empty courtyard and Conan Doyle shuddered with the sense of foreboding that permeated the air. Carts that would normally be overflowing with produce lay abandoned in the corner. Booths used to display the finest wares of Fey craftsmen were empty.

"What has happened here, Tylwyth?" he dared ask as they entered one of the outer structures of Finvarra's citadel. "Where are the merchants, and the people?"

"They are in mourning," the vizier croaked, stopping in the high-ceilinged hallway to remove a ring of keys from within his robes. Even the citadel itself, which normally bustled with life, was deathly still.

"Who, Tylwyth?" Conan Doyle asked, as the vizier produced a key that resembled the petrified branch of some primeval tree and unlocked a heavy wooden gate. "Who do they mourn? Has King Finvarra — ?"