But now there was no sense pretending. What I’d done was truly worth a story, every bit as odd and wonderful as any tale of Taborlin himself. I’d followed Felurian into the Fae, then bested her with magics I couldn’t explain, let alone control.
I felt different now. More solid somehow. Not older, exactly. Not wiser. But I knew things that I’d never known before. I knew the Fae were real. I knew their magic was real. Felurian could break a man’s mind with a kiss. Her voice could tug me like a puppet by its strings. There were things I could learn here. Strange things. Powerful things. Secret things. Things I might never ever have a chance to learn again.
I gently freed myself from Felurian’s sleeping embrace and walked down to the nearby pool. I splashed water on my face and scooped up several handfuls to drink.
I looked through the plants that grew at the water’s edge. I picked some leaves and chewed them as I considered how I might approach the subject with Felurian. The mint sweetened my breath.
When I returned to the pavilion, Felurian was standing there, brushing pale fingers through her long dark hair.
I handed her a violet, its color dark as her eyes. She smiled at me and ate it.
I decided to approach the subject gently, lest I offend her. “I was wondering,” I said carefully, “if you would be willing to teach me.”
She reached out to touch the side of my face gently. “foolish sweet,” she said fondly. “have not I already begun?”
I felt excitement rise in my chest, amazed that it could be so simple. “Am I ready for my next lesson?” I asked.
Her smile grew wider and she looked me up and down, her eyes going half-lidded and mysterious. “are you?”
I nodded.
“it is good you are eager,” Felurian said, her fluting voice tinged with amusement. “you have some cleverness and natural skill. but there is much to learn.” She looked into my eyes, her delicate face gravely serious. “when you leave to walk among the mortal, I will not have you shame me.”
Felurian took my hand and drew me into the pavilion. She pointed. “sit.”
I sat on a cushion, placing my head level with the smooth expanse of her stomach. Her navel was terribly distracting.
She looked down at me, her expression proud and regal as a queen. “
Felurian smiled at me then, her eyes old and knowing. And even before she pushed me back against the cushions and began to bite the side of my neck, I realized that she did not intend to teach me magic. Or if she did, it was magic of a different kind.
While it was not the subject I’d hoped to study under her, it’s fair to say that I was not entirely disappointed. Learning lover’s arts from Felurian far outstripped any curriculum offered at the University.
I am not referring to the vigorous sweaty wrestling most men—and alas, most women—think of as love. While sweat and vigor are pleasant parts of it, Felurian brought to my attention the subtler pieces. If I were to go into the world, she said, I would not embarrass her by being an incompetent lover, and so she took care to show me a great many things.
A few of them in her words: The pinioned wrist. The sigh toward the ear. Devouring the neck. Drawing the lips. The kissing of the throat, the navel, and—as Felurian phrased it—the woman’s flower. The breathing kiss. The feather kiss. The climbing kiss. So many different types of kissing. Too many to remember. Almost.
There was drawing water from the well. The fluttering hand. Birdsong at morning. Circling the moon. Playing ivy. The harrowed hare. Just the names would fill a book. But this, I suppose, is not the place for such things. Alas then for the world.
I don’t mean to give the impression that all our hours were spent in dalliance. I was young and Felurian was immortal, but there is only so much two bodies can endure. The rest of the time we amused ourselves in other ways. We swam and ate. I played songs for Felurian, and she danced for me.
I asked Felurian a few careful questions about magic, not wanting to offend her by prying at her secrets. Unfortunately, her answers were not particularly enlightening. Her magic came as naturally as breathing. I might as well have asked a farmer how seeds sprouted. When her answers weren’t hopelessly nonchalant, they were puzzlingly cryptic.
Still, I continued to ask, and she answered as best she could. And occasionally I felt a small spark of understanding.
But most of our time was spent telling stories. We had so little in common that stories were all that we could share.
You might think Felurian and I would be unevenly matched in this regard. She was older than the sky, while I was not yet seventeen.
But Felurian was not the narrative treasure trove you would think. Powerful and clever? Certainly. Energetic and lovely? Absolutely. But storytelling was not among her many gifts.
I, on the other hand, was of the Edema Ruh, and we know all the stories in the world.
So I told her “The Ghost and the Goosegirl.” I told her “Tam and the Tinker’s Spade.” I told her stories of woodcutters and widow’s daughters and the cleverness of orphan boys.
In exchange, Felurian told me manling stories: “The Hand at the Heart of the Pearl,” “The Boy Who Ran Between.” The Fae have their own cast of legendary characters: Mavin the Manshaped, Alavin Allface. Surprisingly, Felurian had never heard of Taborlin the Great or Oren Velciter, but she did know who Illien was. It made me proud that one of the Edema Ruh had gained a place in the stories the Fae tell each other.
I wasn’t blind to the fact that Felurian herself might have the information I was looking for about the Amyr and the Chandrian. How much more enjoyable would it be to learn the truth from her, rather than rooting endlessly through ancient books in dusty rooms?
Unfortunately, Felurian wasn’t the mine of information I’d hoped. She knew stories of the Amyr, but they were thousands of years old.
When I asked her about the more recent Amyr, asking about church knights and the Ciridae with their bloody tattoos, she merely laughed. “there were never any human amyr,” she said, dismissing the idea out of hand. “those you speak of sound like children dressing in their parents’ clothes.”
While I might expect that reaction from others, getting it from Felurian was particularly disheartening. Still, it was nice to know I had been right about the Amyr existing long before they became knights of the Tehlin church.
Then, since the Amyr were a lost cause, I tried to steer her in the direction of the Chandrian.
“no,” she said, looking me squarely in the eye, her back straight. “I will not speak of the seven.” Her soft voice held no lilting whimsy. No playfulness. No room for discussion or negotiation.
For the first time since our initial conflict, I felt a trickle of icy fear sweep over me. She was so slight and lovely, it was so easy to forget what she truly was.
Still, I couldn’t let the subject go so easily. This was, quite literally, a once in a lifetime opportunity. If Felurian could be persuaded to tell me even a piece of what she knew, I could learn things no one else in the world might know.
I gave her my most charming smile and drew a breath to speak, but before I could get the first word out, Felurian leaned forward and kissed me full upon the mouth. Her lips were plush and warm. Her tongue brushed mine and she bit the swell of my lower lip playfully.
When she pulled her mouth from mine, it left me breathless with a racing heart. She looked at me, her dark eyes full of tender sweetness. She laid her hand along my face, brushing my cheek as gently as a flower.
“my sweet love,” she said. “if you ask of the seven again in this place, I will drive you from it. no matter if your asking be firm or gentle, honest or slantways. if you ask, I will whip you forth from here with a lash of brambles and snakes. I will drive you before me, bloody and weeping, and will not stop until you are dead or fled from fae.”
She didn’t look away from me as she spoke. And though I hadn’t looked away or seen them change, her eyes
