Page 17 of The Endless Dance

The creature, still gaping, turns to me. After a moment, it gathers itself, bows hesitantly and squeaks, “If you would follow me, please… My Lady.”

I almost laugh at the honorifics it has labelled me with, but I hold it in. Instead, I smile and nod, indicating for it to lead the way. “Please, call me Delta,” I tell it.

Faarshayal, it turned out, was a brownie. And no, not the gooey, warm chocolate kind. It was quite the gossiper, all too happy to discuss the creatures of Faezgard, which, apparently, were separated into four categories.

First, you had the high fae, like Draekoh, Vellin, and, I suppose, my mother. Mostly humanoid in appearance, besides the obvious differences such as height, beauty, and pointed ears, they were also magic wielders.

Second came the lesser fae, which, I thought, was quite a demeaning title, though Faarshayal didn’t seem to mind. Lesser fae were the likes of brownies, pixies, and many more beings, each of which floated in one ear and out the other as the little creature listed them in rapid succession.

Next were us: humans. Faarshayal waved a dismissive hand and didn’t elaborate. I can’t help but snort at being dismissed so easily by someone known as a lesser being.

Then, with a shiver, it told me about the Others. Creatures not from this realm.

Oddly, my mind went straight to the Skraeming Dhevilkin.

“The Skraeming Dhevilkin, is that an Other?” I ask casually.

Faarshayal squeals and trips over again. Must be a common occurrence with the length of those feet, I thought as I leant to give it a hand up. Faarshayal gaped at my offered hand before blatantly refusing my help.

“I don’t… How…” it doesn’t seem to know where to start. Eventually, it sighs. “Yes, the Skraeming Dhevilkin is Other. No one knows for sure when it arrived in Faezgard, but the legends of its terrifying tales have been told for aeons. They say the creature that resided in the Wylden Forest before its arrival had been fearsome. For the Skraeming Dhevlikin to have killed it… Why, I would never want to face it.”

Faarshayal shivers, and so do I. I never wanted to meet it again either.

I decide to change the subject as we level out from another stairwell. This one opens into an indoor garden, of sorts, before trailing into a multitude of corridors. I gape as my eyes follow the thick trunk of an extremely tall tree, its branches tenderly laying whispering fingertips upon the rooftops that encircle the open garden. “So, what is the Orb Suite? You seemed a little stunned when Draeokh suggested I room there.”

Faarshayal squeaks and falls flat on its face. I sigh and wait for it to right itself, not bothering to offer my help again in case I offended its tender mind.

“You use the High Lord’s name so… so…” Farrshayal fiddles its elongated fingers together, which pulls my focus to them. My eyes almost bug out of my head as I count them; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven! On each hand.

“Casually?”

I jump as a familiar, friendly voice comes from behind me.

“Familiarly?”

I grin at Laska’s bored yet sassy tone. Such a joyous adolescent, that one.

“Rita! Frieda! Laska!” I jog back to the stairwell to meet them as they climb the final steps. “You made it!”

“Of course we did,” Laska rolls her eyes and continues right on by me. “Portals are one of the safest modes of travel there are in Faezgard.”

“Safer than light bending?” I ask, not actually expecting an answer because, well, it seemed pretty damn safe.

“Of course,” she replies.

“Wait, what?” I demand, hastening to catch up with the lithe female. Faarshayal squeaks as we stroll past and hurries to keep up with us.

Laska sighs, as if answering the most obvious question in the world. “There is a lot of room for error with light bending. If you aren’t completely focused, you could end up anywhere. Not to mention you could leave behind a limb or two.”

I almost vomit at the thought, then quickly count my fingers and wriggle my toes to ensure I was fully intact. My blood simmers. That bastard endangered my life not once, but three times, forcing me to travel with him via light bending without first discussing the risks.

“I suppose you know where we are going, then?” I ask, panting at the steep pace the half fae is setting.

“Everyone knows where the High Lord beds every evening,” Laska scoffs.

“I’m sorry, what!?” I demand, stopping in my tracks. Poor Faarshayal crashes straight into my legs and takes another tumble to the ground. “Sorry, Faarshayal,” I sigh.

“What my daughter means to say,” Rita cuts in, “is that the wing where the High Lord's rooms are also houses the Orb Suite.”