A Fairy's Tale: Battle for the Kingdom

By Heather Wielding

Shaela's story continues in this second part to A Fairy's Tale. A girl born of mixed blood holds the throne to Fairyland, with her council eager to help in any way possible. Events from the past, from a time when she was nothing but a lost girl, come to haunt her as a child she'd forgotten arrives with a rightful claim to the throne. The child's demands send Shaela to a journey to an unknown land, and her council - to Demonland.
How will Fairyland fare without its crowned Queen? And will the council find a way to return to the above-ground? Find out in these pages written for National Novel Writing Month 2021!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heather Wielding
• Release date: Mar 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005663575

Book preview

Prologue

Everything was ready for the child.

She placed him into the crib, and as she did, demons gathered around her to marvel over the miracle of life. Their kind couldn’t create or reproduce: a newborn child was a sight few of them had ever witnessed.

He will grow up to rule the entire Universe, Alaene said softly, her hand needlessly arranging the blankets around the babe. He will grow to be the most powerful Incubus the world has ever known.

Yes, mistress, the demons whispered, their eyes wide with wonder.

Alaene wasn’t looking for their acceptance, but welcomed it nonetheless. The only thing that mattered to her now was the well-being of the child.

A swarm of adoring demons would benefit to keep him safe and happy, she knew, and allowed the demons to remain.

We must make certain he is pleased, she said. Her hand left the blankets alone.

She’d prepared the rooms hastily. The child had everything he needed, but little to entertain him. She’d given him a bed, dressers filled with necessities, nursemaids, a small demon to keep a never-closing eye on him. Now that he’d arrived, the rooms seemed empty. Barren.

A child needed more than necessities, Alaene decided.

He needed toys, bright things to look at, to touch and taste.

Magic arrived to her aid. Demons around her smelled it, felt it tickling their bones. They greeted it with oohs and aahs, eager to see it working. Lesser demons had no access to might; they could only enjoy it through their masters. Those who served Alaene were all lesser, tiny, puny things bent and broken, things with no power to challenge their mistress with.

The room quivered with might as Alaene’s will reached out to all corners of the Universe to find things the child might like. She brought out brightly coloured figurines, stuffed animals, buntings, paintings, books with stories trapped between leather covers, all colourful, stimulating to look at.

The child paid no mind to her efforts, but the demons around her watched, eyes wide and bright, as the room filled with splendour.

Now then, Alaene said, her hand returning to the blanket the child had kicked to disarray. Isn’t that better?

The demons bobbed their heads in agreeance, but the child only saw her. A small hand reached out to touch her, and Alaene bent to press it against her cheek. The contrast between purple skin and white was strong, but no-one made an effort to notice it. The demons didn’t care, and Alaene felt nothing but love for the child.

I promise, she whispered, her breath warm on the child’s cheek, you will be safe here.

A small hand reached out to grab a fistful of hair, and she allowed it with a loving smile.

The cage swung slowly back and forth, like it had for years and years, giving its occupant pleasant motion sickness. The small demon sat, without blinking, without moving, without allowing itself to spill the contents of its dried-up stomach. Mistress had given it a task, and it would obey.

The small demon remembered its every task. It had enjoyed them all, perhaps even more than the reward that came later, after tasks had been completed. The mistress had a heavy hand. The demon’s skin, purple in tone, was marked with scars left by the rings she wore.

Anything for the mistress, the demon thought, its throat too dry to form words.

It had watched the child for sixteen years. First, the scenery had been peaceful. The child had slept, woken to cry and feed on human milk, and slept again. Soon, it had learned to move, to speak, to play. The small demon had enjoyed the nausea this domestic bliss had given it.

As the child’s territory grew wider, the scenery started to change. Instead of a locked angle, the small demon now enjoyed a view that spread out over the child’s left shoulder. It had been taken to school, to forests, to numerous adventures which caused it to feel a slight jealousy.

The small demon had never been free. It had been made to keep watch, first over a beach, then over a half-mortal fairy, then over the child. The destiny given to it didn’t please it, but the demon never complained. It had a task to do, and it would do it well.

Anything to please the mistress.

And the child she had taken in.

The demon wasn’t oblivious to the ways of the world. It knew how most living things reproduced. It knew of the infestation, and the time required to gestate. It knew of birth, the bloody mess of it.

Mistress hadn’t gone through any of that. She had remained intact, flawless.

A creature to entice the utmost terror.

The small demon shivered in delight at the thought of the mistress and the terror she spread on all those around her, even the smallest of demons. Its tail coiled itself around the bars of the cage, and for the first time in sixteen years, its eyes closed for a moment.

A brief moment, no more than a heartbeat.

A moment during which a child, who had grown into a young man, stood to chase a purpose new to him.

As the demon opened its eyes, frightened by its own weakness, the young man had created a Portal. His magic worked like that of fairies, the demon had noted. All young master needed was to wave a finger, and think of the things he desired.

Today, it seemed, he had desired a Portal.

The small demon watched as he entered, and was drawn in with him. Portals created by fairy magic were fickle and unstable, quick to be born, eager to die. One needed to move fast in order to walk through one.

Young master was nothing if not fast. Years of chasing prey for fun had left him slender of build, strong enough to battle any animal. His wings were translucent, quite different from those of his mother, strong enough to carry him to the stars and back. 

The Portal transported young master to the outskirts of a small village, to where the daily lives of mortals took their course. Days followed each other, repeating themselves slowly, steadily, disrupted only by birth, death, and illness.

The small demon supposed young master had chosen this location to disperse some demise of his own. The anticipation made it giggle. Life had become much more pleasant after young master had arrived. It had found itself giggling more often, enjoying the days and nights watching him – live.

Today, sixteen years had passed since Azán came into its life. Sixteen years since its life gained a new purpose.

The small demon was lost in thought, lulled close to sleep by pleasant memories.

It watched, through half-closed lids as a young man, tall and fair of face, his wings now concealed in fairy magic, smiled to a young woman. It watched them share a kiss, an embrace.

It watched as the woman fell lifeless to the young man’s arms.

Watched as the young man inhaled the vapour escaping the dying woman.

Watched as his eyes shifted to purple, just for a moment.

The small demon flinched, sleep escaping it, terror replacing it.

This was what the mistress wanted to see. This was what she wanted the demon to look for.

Signs of the young master becoming what he was meant to be.

Soul, the small demon tried. Its throat hadn’t made a sound in sixteen years. It was dry and hoarse, and the effort of words cut it like a dozen blades.

Master has taken a soul!

Its tail squeezed the bars of its cage hard, like it had a will of its own.

Soul! the small demon croaked, and close to the cage, a servant girl fell pale, and rushed to inform mistress of the news.

The castle was quiet as the Portal closed behind him. Azán wiped a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth, licking it off his fingers. Mortal blood was sweet, perhaps even sweeter than the soul he had devoured.

The warmth of the girl still lingered. He could feel her dreams, her desires, the plans she has made for the future.

To marry, bear children, and grow old, Azán spoke, as though he was reciting a poem.

The dreams of mortals were simple, all about days following each other in a slow, boring progress. They lacked ambition, aspiration, the need to better themselves. Even now that magic once more filled the Universe, mortals dreamed of making babies, of eating and sleeping, of dying in the company of loved ones.

Fools, Azán spat.

Don’t forget, you are half-mortal yourself.

A fact I would change, if I could.

Alaene moved quietly, without drawing attention to her presence if she so chose. Azán didn’t need to look at her to see the disappointment on her face. For reasons unclear to him, Alaene seemed to value his mixed blood as an esteemed quality rather than a flaw. Why, he could not comprehend. Mixed blood was nothing but a weakness, reducing him from a demon to a filthy half-breed destined to die.

I hear you have taken a soul.

Isn’t that what you told me to do?

Alaene smiled, and her voice was soft like a kitten’s purr. You have made me proud today, child, she said, like I knew you would.

Her hand was cold on his arm. The contrast was a painful reminder of his mortal blood; her purple skin and black claws against the whiteness of his. He wanted to push her hand aside, but still enjoyed the comfort it gave.

How could you do it? he asked, softly, speaking words he hadn’t dared utter earlier.

She didn’t understand. Do what, my heart?

His eyes were piercing like clear ice as they met hers. How could you allow a mortal man to – touch you?

For a moment, confusion lingered within her. Then, as the meaning of the words sank in, she laughed, and her laughter was like silvery bells singing in delight.

In time, laughter died. Azán waited without joining it. He saw nothing funny about mortal hands having paved their way into the divinity that was his mother.

You misunderstand, my heart, Alaene said, wiping away tears brought by laughter. And I have wronged by not sharing the story of your origin earlier. Come, sit with me by the fire, and I will tell you all.

The flames in a fireplace of a great hall danced higher, perhaps reminiscing over the time when an old man had stared into them, enjoying afternoon tea under arched ceilings of the castle upon Wizard’s Peak.

Chapter One

A little to the left , if you please, the Queen’s council said, brush in hand, another safely tucked behind his ear. The other council turned a little to the left, causing the first one to pause with a frustrated sigh. "The other left!" he insisted.

Ah, yes, of course, the one advised agreed, turning to his right. Is this better?

Much, the council who had first spoken allowed from behind a canvas upon which a half-finished portrait waited to be whole. Now stay there while I finish this.

But you paint to slowly! the one posing complained. Couldn’t you just take a mental image of me, and finish the painting based on that?

The one painting paused to consider. While this is a tempting idea, I do believe it would clash against the basic principles of art, and the suffering it is meant to cause.

Are you quite certain art is to cause suffering?

And therefore I must conclude that while I could, I won’t. You’ll just need to pose.

Fine then, the council sighed. But couldn’t we get some refreshments, at least?

The one painting took the suggestion under consideration. Art is thirsty work, he decided, and we really should have wine to enjoy while the process lasts. He removed his fingers from the paint brush to snap them to bring forth sweet cherry wine and boysenberries lightly coated with powdered sugar. He poured the wine, and took a glass to the council posing, clad skimpily in shades of green and gold. They chinked glasses, careful not to break them, and drank to the good health of Queen Shaela, all of Fairyland, and finally, their own.

All the while, the brush continued to paint on its own.

Perhaps comfy chairs as well, the council in charge of painting suggested. Drinking on one’s feet is against etiquette, after all.

Except in parties, the one posing reminded him, tapping his nose with the hand that wasn’t holding a wine glass.

Yes, of course. But this is hardly a party...

And therefore comfy chairs are needed.

Another snap brought forth a sofa upon which the fairies settled to watch the painting being finished, the theory of art and suffering melting from their minds.

How do you feel about this business with Queen Shaela and the outside world? the one in the skimpy outfit asked. The situation had been causing him worry ever since Shaela first spoke of her desire to form trade alliances with humans and elves.

I don’t like it one bit, the other one replied swiftly. Fairies should remain in their own realm, not seen nor heard.

Just like children.

Exactly.

They watched the painting being finished before their eyes and idle hands, their minds mulling with questions roused by Shaela’s plans. A bystander would have been struck be their silence: fairies were rarely still, rarely so quiet.

But really, the one who’d been painting said, draining his cup and allowing magic to refill it, all of this is just – unheard of!

That’s the word I would have chosen, unheard of! the other agreed. Palms were slapped together to celebrate their converging thoughts. She really should consider the implications.

What will happen if the outside world learns of us?

Fairy lanterns, the one who’d been posing declared solemnly. That’s what’s going to happen.

The one with paint on his fingers, nose, and hair sighed. Every fairy’s worst fear.

We should talk to her.

The other council nodded his head, once, sharply, causing a brush to fall from behind his ear. Let’s do that immediately.

They fluttered away, leaving the painting to finish itself.

The decision to reach out to the outside world hadn’t been born lightly. The Queen, without the aid of her council, had pondered over it on many nights when sleep denied her solace.

Fairyland was an isolated state, hidden under a shroud of magic. With no trade relations, fairies relied on magic to fulfil their everyday needs.

Shaela had witnessed a world void of magic. She was wise enough to fear a sudden change in the Balance of the Universe. Desperate to find a way to protect her people, she looked outside the small realm to find allies to aid them in a time of need.

Fairies were fickle, she knew, but still somehow constant. Change would not be easy for them. They would resist, they would kick and scream, rebel against her.

Shaela rested her forehead against a window frame decorated with living flowers, and closed her eyes. It wasn’t worry that had drained colour from her cheeks today, brought cold sweat to dampen her skin.

It was pain.

Had she been human, she would have accused something she’d eaten. A human might have brewed fennel tea, retired early, ignored the pain altogether.