Below is a sampling of rules from the lord Dara’s court.

  Do dress lavishly.

  Do flaunt arts and talents.

  Do engorge on food and drink.

  Do indulge the sensual nature.

  Do not speak of business.

  Do not speak on matters of the divine (politics).

  Do not spill wine on the table

  There may be more rules I did not collect, and certainly many courtesies in dancing I did not attend, but these are the absolutes I could ascertain from the revelers.

  I find it strange that the rules so closely mirror Etnfrandian manners so perfectly, and yet they know nothing of this world. As for me, it is not at all what I anticipated, yet it is precisely as described by mankind. Perhaps that is the very reason I did not expect it: the needlessly devious god, the bawdy folk, the naturalistic excess, and the gluttonous plenty. I could not have pedicted that the folklore of humanity would present more accurate formation than the very source of the legends, the elves.

  From Fennorin’s Notes from the Fae I

  The steaming springs would have been refreshing–if not for the interference of the water nymphs. With their “help,” it took well over an hour for Fenn to get himself bathed and presentable. Most of that hour was spent wrestling his ordinary tunic and trousers back from the naiads, who mocked him with dark eyes and flashed straight teeth with every laughing toss of his clothes. All to the sound of Krid’s uproarious laughter.

  They had tried in vain to dress him in their fashions. They provided a translucent, open-front top that tapered at the wrists and waist, a silky belt, and thin trousers that flared only to cinch at the ankle. Strangest of all, there were no shoes, but rather some beaded straps attached to a flimsy soul only large enough to cover the ball of the foot; more a vessel for beads than protection.

  When he left, he stood instead in his cleaned white blouse, grey trousers, and… the beaded footwear. The nymphs had decided to play keep-away longest with his boots, leaving watery residue on them with each catch until they were soaked through and one of them completely dunked in the spring. “Drop that right now.” In retrospect, he could’ve worded that more accurately.

  What he did allow was the high, belted sash and a few beaded necklaces. Perhaps turning down the clothes was rude, but this compromise was far better than walking around half-naked.

  By the end of the affair, he’d just been grateful that Gale and Mell had been led elsewhere, as had Syrdin.

  He walked beside Krid back the way they’d come, toward what he’d gathered was the main hall. Krid had sobered and wore a pleated, skirt-like bottom with a golden sash across his chest–a surprising compliment to his large build and indigo complexion.

  “Krid,” Fenn began a question he felt his friend was finally sober enough to answer. “What do you do when you know someone is lying to you, but you are at the mercy of their good graces?”

  Krid eyed him. “You mean the centaur?”

  Fenn tugged at the sash-belt around his middle. “Yes.”

  Krid put a hand to his shoulder, forcing Fenn to face him. “Are we in danger here?” he growled in a whisper.

  Fenn considered it. “No, not immediate harm anyway. But he hasn’t been honest. Or forthcoming for that matter.”

  Krid released him, instead scratching at his spiny throat. “We can’t catch him in a lie now that he’s gone. That’s what I do. I guess we catch his people in a lie instead. Lies always leave trails.”

  As Fenn nodded, he fought back premature discouragement. “How do we do that?” The art of subtleties was, unfortunately, not among Fenn’s talents.

  “Question the other guests about Staiil. Look for where their stories differ, and in what ways.”

  “Are there questions you think I should–?”

  “Fenn!” Gale’s joyous cry bade him turn.

  When he did, he dropped his boots, his conversation forgotten. Not only was she richly dressed, but her face was elegantly painted while around it, her hair had been pulled gently back into thin braids threaded with beads. These ended in a half-tail that curled down her back with the rest of her hair, glowing golden at the fringes in the yellow light.

  Then there was the rest. Her dress began at her shoulders, barely clinging to their edges in a semi-transparent fabric that appeared to be made from the sparest strings of gold. As it approached her bosom, the threads were woven with something like thin shards of emerald shimmering in a low, double-arched shape. This clung tight against her skin, complimenting rather than overshadowing her form. From there, the dress hugged her ribs and stomach, the emerald shards growing sparse again until her navel showed through. Around her hips, a dark scarf had been tied so the ends dangled in front of her skirt. That, when it re-appeared under the belt, featured the same emerald beading on large pleats. As before, the shards dwindled further down the dress while the pleats separated into wide strips around her legs. It took only a moment to absorb this image, but when he had…

  beautiful felt an insult.

  Brightening under his stare, Gale spun, and the skirt flared in graceful, fluttering flaps. “Isn’t it gorgeous?” Her eyes sparkled in the same greens and golds as the clothes, enlarged on her face by the interplay. Over them, the nymphs had painted her eyelids gold and outlined her lashes in black with a long wing at each corner. The face-paint couldn’t grant such features as hers any improvement, but it did accentuate nature’s gifts.

  He wished he could draw her, immortalize this image as painters did the grand mountains and flowering valleys, to add to future texts and hide in his own stash of drawings at home.

  “Yes,” he answered her at last, surprised at how his voice cracked. “Yes. Gorgeous.” But it was emotional to see. These clothes, this place, these were her birthright, as natural on her as flying to a bird. Doubt crept into his mind. If this place brings her joy like this, could it be bad for her? Could her own god really be bad for her?

  With a coy grin, she took his hands at the wrists. The gesture held a hint of hesitation, a tentative acknowledgement that they had crossed blades only that “morning.” It had been more than a day, probably, with their energy supernaturally extended by this realm. After so many days of fighting, he couldn’t decide whether or not he was glad for the contact.

  “Didn’t they have an outfit for you?” she probed, lilting her tone into a teasing accusation.

  “Erm…” He pulled one hand away and felt the boney hollow of his chest. “I…”

  “Ha! It was no outfit. He would’ve been almost less dressed than me!” Krid chuckled. “And I don’t have anything to hide.” Like lizards and drakes, all dragonfolks’ privates were internal. Clothes were a cultural choice.

  Gale’s complexion transformed to red and she placed a hand over her stomach where the fabric was clearest. “I can imagine.” Her expression changed to a frown as she gazed over his shoulder. “But even Syrdin has one.” He saw the regret in her eyes as she looked at him again. She wanted to see.

  He stiffened to hide the chill her wanting elicited.

  Mell moseyed behind Gale wearing a deeply purple dress. One sleeve drooped around her arm while a knot of fabric provided the only covering for her other shoulder. The rest of the dress was long and loose except for a belted sash angled at her waist, but the overall effect was flattering, most especially the color. “Well, I guess that’s a draw, Gale. We were both wrong.”

  “Betting?” Syrdin strolled up with a raised brow. Zheir clothes were similar in cut to what had been provided for Fenn, but he was taken aback to see zhem dressed brightly in an opaque white shirt with large, red-beaded patterns woven in the shoulders and sides of the outfit. Zheir hair had been braided away from zheir face in tight rows only to burst from beads into brilliant curls. The high neck in the front of the shirt–unlike Fenn’s offering–was high and unrevealing, but the back was split to the belt. “Is it too late to put in a bid?” Zheir teeth pearled almost as bright as the shirt.

  With a full look at zheir face, he realized zhe had paint over zheir lashes, too, but in silver. And zheir cheeks glittered. Men’s clothes. Women’s paints. Somehow, it worked for Syrdin.

  “Actually, it is. You and Fenn were the subjects. I bet that neither of you would wear what they provided, while Gale thought you’d be the one not to, but Fenn would.”

  Syrdin smirked at Fenn. “Just her wishful thinking.”

  “Well, I would have if they had provided a proper shirt…” Fenn clutched at his blouse’s front, embarrassed by his own shyness.

  Syrdin shrugged. “Your problem, not mine.”

  His problem. Like he was the only man in the realms not comfortable baring his skin and bones to the public.

  “I like the cornrows, Syd.” Mell, blessedly, changed the subject. “It’s a good look for you.”

  “Oh these?” Zhe fingered the little braids. “I’d rather they’d gone all the way down, but there’s only so much an hour and three nymphs can do.”

  True, the slanted braids did highlight the harsher angles of zheir face. More than anything, it suited zheir temperament.

  In the clearing near the tables, jittering music began to play on the pipe and strings. At once, the forest burst into motion. Not only the people, but the trees writhed with movement as white-barked nymphs, their heads crowned with branches, peeled away from their homes and ran to the dance.

  Gale gasped, and Fenn found his wrists were captured again. “Won’t you come dance with me, Fenn. Please please please please?”

  When she turned her chin up to look in his face, he couldn’t help but admire again the pretty job they’d done painting hers. But no amount of big-eyed pleas would motivate him to embarrass them both like that. “Gale, you know I don’t like dancing.”

  “Please, Fenn. You only ever danced with me twice. And one time you had for our betrothal party, and I always had to drag you to practice. Please? How many people can say they’ve danced in the fae? To genuine Faerish songs?”

  He had the strangest urge to put his hands around her perfectly painted face–if only to still her bouncing pleas. The urge passed with a wince. “I don’t want to offend some fauness by tripping all over her hooves. Or have my toes broken by a centaur for that matter.”

  “Please, just put on your boots. You’ll be fine. You’re an elf .” She glanced to where he’d dropped them.

  “They’re wet.” He was running low on excuses. Maybe, a small piece of him saw merit in her argument. Faerish songs and dances would be a unique experience.

  She tried to lace her fingers through his, clasping hands between them. “Then wear them wet.”

  Gross! He pushed her hands toward her. “You have fun. I’d only be in your way.” Like always. She pouted, but her attention wandered to the clearing. With one last remorseful glance at him, she bounded away. Before long, she was smiling again in spins that looked almost familiar.

  Maybe letting her dance to enchanted music when she was already bewitched—allegedly—was a bad idea. But this was her homeland, not his. He’d already ripped her from her home by accident. He wouldn’t hold her back from this experience on purpose.

  He trod back to the table with the others, intending to ignite discussion of their observations and form a plan for the party. Mell and Krid started on some cheese and small sips of wine. Fenn sat with them, watching Gale twirl in her extraordinary dress, listening to the foreign-yet-familiar tunes. They were definitely similar to Etnfrandian dances. He’d have to write that down at some point. Not that it was a priority now.

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  Syrdin grabbed a goblet carved with sudfieds and spun it in zheir hand. “We should probably take this time to ask these folks some questions.”

  “Yes, Krid and I thought the same.” Fenn nodded, dragging his gaze away.

  Syrdin dipped a finger in the cup, licked it, and shrugged. “Well, if you aren’t going to dance, then I guess you three–or the two of you who can speak Faerish–you can take the diners, and I’ll have to investigate on the floor. I doubt Gale will ask anything important.” Zhe took a hefty swig and was gone, weaving in and out of the revelers with a grace and ease Fenn had not expected.

  “Great. Even Syrdin knows how to dance.” He hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

  “You are very proficient,” Mell reminded him.

  “In human ballrooms, where the steps repeat in short, identical patterns for the duration of a song unless I decide to perform a brief turn.”

  “Fair.” Mell nodded. “Maybe you should learn your peoples’ dances. At very least your betrothed would appreciate it.”

  He frowned at the idea. In elven dances, he felt like a flagpole in a forest with jumbled limbs and nubs for feet. Meanwhile the centaurs in Dara’s court were keeping pace with the two-legged folk, and that with flourish and grace.

  Krid chuckled. “Reminds me of how I met Fridana.”

  “Your wife?” Mell asked.

  A lightly lubricated Krid nodded. “Only, the drinks were hard liquor and the dancing was to drums.”

  “Sounds fun.” Mell smiled, inviting more.

  Fenn sighed and stood. He had work to do.

  He infiltrated groups all too happy to receive an elf for the first time. Early on, most of the folk spoke of music, of garden arrangements, of beading, and of similarly artful pursuits. It reminded him much of Etnfrandia, where art was considered the highest calling. One circle debated the merits of having a male versus female merleich companions–notably not considered pets, despite their resemblance to foxes.

  Later, it was gossip about family and friends, and who had just snuck away from the party with whom. He tried to ask about villages, about culture and traditions, and most of all about worship. But every time he mentioned the Highfather, the group would offer a quiet round of “bless his name” before scattering like leaves in the wind. Anruwan’s name had similar results, only the scattering was abrupt and with no blessing. Dara’s name earned bobbed heads and a blessing of “Eternal Forests keep Him,” which Fenn learned was abbreviated for “May the Eternal Forests keep Him strong and lively.” Everyone spoke fondly of their god and the most fondly of his parties. No one would speak of him as a meddler.

  As for other gods, someone admitted the goddess Dervalia had been in mourning since the elves had left. Few had seen or heard from her. Many claimed that her twin, Naude, threw the second-best parties. None of that was in any way helpful.

  Thus, Fenn tried his own surname, Willowbirth. That received the most genuine reactions.

  “Who?”

  “Is that a dryad?” “Why would I know an elven surname?” “Elves have second names?”

  One, just one draiad stiffened at his name. Lichen-bearded, their bark cracked with timeless age, they hesitated. “I don’t know who that is.”

  Whatever the ancestral Willowbirths had done to earn Dara’s ire, the laypeople didn’t know about it, and the semi-immortals wouldn’t talk. Fenn harbored a growing dread that his forefather—or rather foremother—may have been a traitor to the gods; a most unwelcome ship in the bay of his mind. With even a single indication that Selena Willowbirth The First was not the reason the elves had been sealed away, he would gladly sink that ship. The ignorance of the faefolk wasn’t enough. He needed to hear it from Dara, or Cyalmara, or any of the ancients.

  As the party festered, folks began to delve into coarse conversation. Finally, a snippet of detail about the merits of bedding a faunness over a nymph sent Fenn running back to the table hoping the others had better fortune.

  When he returned, Mell was balancing a second empty goblet facedown atop a first, which itself was balanced on an alternating stack of bowls and plates. Slowly, she removed her hands from the goblet. The sculpture swayed. It steadied. Krid clapped and then handed her a piece of cutlery. “Now try this.”

  Mell accepted it with a devilish grin. “Oh, easy.” She began to lay it across the top–or rather the bottom of the upside-down goblet, which was on the top of the tower. Her hands were no steadier than the thing she’d built. Several fae had stopped to watch.

  “And all of the platters and dishes are either wood or earthenware? No silver?”

  Someone laughed. “What use do we have for the metals of the earth?”

  Mell balanced the knife across it and moved her hand away. No sooner had the few fae clapped than Krid handed her another bowl.

  Fenn settled at the table to watch, head drooping with exhaustion. He wondered if he had been awake for two True days yet. A brightly dressed figure sat next to him. “What did you learn?” Syrdin asked. He jumped. He hadn’t recognized zhem without the blacks.

  “Almost nothing. You?”

  Zhe tapped a finger against the table. “They won’t talk about the Highfather; they all serve Dara or the sprite-goddess, his subordinate; and don’t spill your goblet on the ‘lord’s’ table.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “You get kicked out. More specifically thrown out.”

  “Did you…?”

  “Pft, no, but watch.” Zhe stuck out a leg at an opportune moment, tripping a passing nymph. She stumbled drunkenly into the table, sending the contents of her goblet splashing across it.

  Before she could even protest, five sets of hands grabbed her, hoisting her over their hairy or bark-covered bodies and charging off with a great kerfuffle. “Wait! It wasn’t my fault!” Her cry faded away as the group disappeared with her.

  Fenn stared fearfully after where they had disappeared. “Good gods. What if they hurt her? You might have just–”

  “No, they just throw her out of the boundaries of this ‘hall.’ I followed them the first time. I only ruined her party, not her life.”

  Poor lady, he thought. “Then Krid and Mell?” He pivoted to the tower. No sooner had he spoken than it collapsed, clattering across the table and onto the ground.

  He jumped up, but nothing happened apart from hearty laughter and a general shift of attention away.

  “Relax. Their goblets were empty.”

  “I see.” Fenn sat again, his gaze finding the dance floor, and Gale turning on it, flush-faced and starry-eyed.

  “Y’know, that satyr’s been working on her for the better part of the party.” Syrdin sipped at a chalice of water, nodding toward the floor.

  “Working on her?” He watched a male faun grab her waist and spin around with her, right hip to right hip.

  “Gale. To bed her, obviously.”

  “What?” he jumped to his feet, craning his neck. The faun leaned in and whispered something in her ear that reddened her cheeks down into her neck, and she laughed.

  “Hm.” Syrdin grunted.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I was wondering if you’d care. I guess so.”

  “If I care! Syrdin!”

  “Yeah?”

  “She’s intoxicated!”

  “Clearly.”

  “And so she’s vulnerable!”

  “And you don’t want someone else sleeping with her.”

  “No, I don’t want anyone sleeping with her. Not like that!” He pointed her way emphatically.

  Syrdin raised a brow, amused. “Anyone? Like it’s never happened before?”

  “What? Of course it hasn’t!”

  Syrdin scoffed. “Arsdark, man! She’s an elf! She’s been an adult for what? One hundred years? A hundred-fifty? You think she’s never? As an elf?”

  Anger clenched his jaw. Gale had never been loose. She’d never shown a hint of interest in breaking tradition like that. “We are elves. And so there’s plenty of time to propagate. No need for haste.”

  “Haste? Propagate? What in the Five Realms? Is that the only purpose you think sex has?”

  That stopped him short. Not a single culture adhered to such a teaching, not even Etnfrandia, though there were a handful of religious sects that preached it across Hethbarn. “No, I suppose not. But promiscuity is discouraged in Etnfrandia. To clarify family lines.” As he said it, he realized how strange it must sound to zhem. Probably offensive. “I… hadn’t really questioned it. Not when the humans in Hethbarn value fidelity, too. Or most do.” He glanced around at the random pairs who had not been together at the start of the party, curious if all the tribes had been like this; if this was supposed to be fae-nature, like Syrdin implied. It had never been his.

  His gaze returned to Gale, to the back of her hair waving and bouncing with the dance. That same faun was grinning at her over another dancer’s shoulder. Doubt crept up his spine. Is this hers? But she’d never been flirtatious before, or not that he’d observed. Perhaps she’d been a bit affectionate with him. Very touchy in that regard, before she’d learned about his secrets—ah.

  In retrospect, it was clear she’d been flirting for years. With him.

  Syrdin snorted, more baffled than upset. “Then that means that you–possibly the both of you–are actually virgins. I guess that does explain a lot.”

  Virgins. The way zhe said it made him feel shame when he needn’t have. “Yes.” This was not what he wanted to be talking about. He wanted to discuss Boidhan and the coincidence—or non-coincidence—that he had disappeared at the same time that Fenn had opened the Door. How strange it was that no one would speak long about the high god. Fenn did not want to discuss sex.

  “Arsdark. These crazy Highlanders” zhe muttered in Dark Elvish, not knowing he could understand.

  Thankfully, the dance sent Gale spinning with someone away from that faun, now turning with a centaur in a beaded sash.

  “Do you think Boidhan crossed to the Trueplane?” he asked.

  “Definately. The question is why. Could be for the same reason that those two spent the whole night together.” Syrdin gestured to a couple—a faun and a nymph–who stumbled their way off the floor with arms about each others’ waists. “The wife he made is out there, you know.”

  Sabaed, goddess of war, matron of the Night Elves; she was the woman formed by Boidhan’s own hands as a compliment to himself, his eternal wife. “You think he went to find her?”

  “I’ll pray to anyone who’ll listen that he didn’t. But it’s possible.” Zhe sipped a goblet. “Lovers do weird s**t. Like Gale now. Obsessed with you, but toying with that guy.”

  Fenn watched Gale return to the arms of that same faun. He recalled the coarse conversations he’d overheard, and the ones that must’ve been occurring about her. He didn’t doubt for a moment what the faun’s intentions were, but Gale…

  Does she realize? Was it possible he was the only one who found the thought of sex–particularly casual sex–offensive? Is this fae nature? Or only the preference of the party-goers that exist in every culture?

  Gale had been no party-goer. She’d turned away every interested man in Etnfrandia. She wanted a family. She wanted… she’d said she wanted a man who cared about her beyond titles, talent, and appearances. She’d made that very clear to him when she’d first approached him for a matronage. Fenn peered at Gale, at the redness of her face, the wideness of her smile, all too red, too wide, too wanting. “She’s never been like this.”

  Gale had thought that man was him.

  In a way, she was right.

  As that faun spun her in a twirl, he leaned his flat nose against her ear and he whispered something, wrapping a hand around her stomach. Gale guffawed and shoved him away playfully, not firmly enough to break contact.

  “She’s not herself.” Assurance swept over him at last. Whether she’d had some romance before him was irrelevant. He knew her. This joy was false. The Yellow Wood might have belonged to her ancestors, but this wasn’t who she was. Not any more than Etnfrandia was who he was.

  “Then you’d better go get her.”

  He analyzed the dance floor, the many layers of bodies swinging round each other, and he couldn’t see the pattern. “How?”

  Syrdin tossed him his boots, a grin tugging at zheir lip. “Dancing.”

  “I…” He sat, the boots in his hands, already overwhelmed. She was in the middle, deepest part of the throng. Even if he could get to her, he didn’t know how to break whatever spell she was under. But he was inches from someone who might. “Syrdin, when you said you died…”

  “I meant I died, and Ath-togail revived me. I believe the two of you have met.”

  The worry of the moment suppressed the bewilderment he felt at the statement. He had too many questions he wanted to ask. But Gale… He focused his musings to one: “Does it have to be that way? Bound to a god until death?”

  “How should I know?”

  He shoved one foot into a damp boot, cringing. He needed Gale to resist the bewitchment–or whatever this was. He needed to know how to help her do it. He shoved the other boot on.

  The faun’s hand moved lower, wandering to Gale’s hip. His lips moved by her ear. Her arms, already draped over his shoulders for the dance, tightened around his neck.

  A cold chill crossed Fenn’s skin, but a fire he didn’t recognize sent him running toward the floor. Regardless of how to break the spell, the first step was to retrieve her.

  How green is Fenn?