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 — ?'
The Faerie advisor gestured for Conan Doyle to proceed through the gate, which led into the king's private garden. 'Who do they mourn?' he echoed, shaking his head sadly. 'The future, perhaps? Perhaps they mourn the future. But it is not my place to explain.'
After Conan Doyle had stepped through, Tylwyth Teg pulled the gate closed behind him with a resounding clatter. Conan Doyle frowned and glanced back through the bars of the gate at the vizier.
'Step into the garden and all will be made clear, Conan Doyle.'
Knowing he would get little else from Twylyth Teg, Conan Doyle turned and strode into the garden. Either side of the stone path was adorned with the largest red roses he had ever seen. The faint sound of gurgling water reached him and he knew that he was near his destination. A moment later he caught sight of the top of the fountain in the garden's center. Though he could not see more than its apex, he recalled an intricate ebony sculpture of a great fish, water jetting from its open maw to rain down into the pool that surrounded it.
He passed beneath an archway woven from a flowering vine known only to the world of Faerie, its blossoms welcoming him to the garden of kings with voices like those of tiny children. And then his feet froze and he could not move. Even his breath was stilled in his chest. It seemed to him that his heart paused as well. Laid out upon the ground around the stone fountain were the unmistakable shapes of bodies, covered by sheets of ivory silk.
'Dear Lord,' Conan Doyle whispered. Everywhere his eyes fell was a body, their coverings rippling as the breeze caressed their silken shrouds, tormenting him with glimpses of the corpses beneath. There must be fifty of them.
A tremor went through Conan Doyle. He sensed movement behind him and whirled to face the object of his dread, the reason why he had expected never to return to Faerie. He had tried to fashion a ward, some sort of magickal defense that would protect his heart from the devastation he knew he would feel, but there was nothing to save him from this.
Ceridwen was dressed in flowing robes of soft, sheer linen, dyed a deep forest green. Her pale skin was accentuated by the dark hue of her garb. When her eyes met his, she drew a gauzy scarf tight about her shoulders as if experiencing a sudden chill.
'My lady,' Conan Doyle whispered, his breath taken away. The ache caused by simply being within her presence was bone deep.
'You said that I would never see you again,' the Fey sorceress said, her voice the lilt of a gentle spring breeze, still carrying the melancholy of a long winter. 'And I had come to accept that.'
When she walked across the stone floor, her dark robes billowing about her, it was with such elegance that she seemed to float, carried by the wind.
'You once told me you would never trust the word of a human. Even one that you loved,' Conan Doyle said. He tried to search her eyes but there was only ice there. Never had he felt so torn. Part of him would rather have been experiencing the fires of damnation in that moment, and yet another side of his heart felt utter joy merely to be in Ceridwen's presence once more.
She knelt beside one of the bodies, her long, delicate hand reaching to draw back the sheet that covered it. A dead face was revealed to them, a twisted look of pain permanently frozen upon it.
'Why have you come, Arthur?' she asked, her thumb tracing arcane sigils upon the corpse's forehead. It was a ritual he had seen before, during the Twilight War, when an ally had been stuck down by infernal magicks. It freed what life energies remained within the confines of the body.
'To seek answers, and to warn you of a great evil on the rise,' he said, tentatively kneeling beside her. To be this close to her again was almost more than he could bear. 'But I fear I have come too late.'
Ceridwen covered the twisted features of the fallen Fey, raising her head to look into Conan Doyle's eyes. He would drown in those eyes, and there was nothing that could be done to save him.
'Who did this, my lady?' he asked, ignoring the urge to reach out and touch her face, to caress her alabaster
