The Feywild Job (Dungeons & Dragons #13)

Once, Long Ago

After a hundred prayers Saeldian had whispered at the wishing rock, an elf finally appeared in the wood.

The elf—a man with long pale hair snagged by twigs, the hem of his fluttering dark robes tattered around muddy boots—walked inside the clearing where Saeldian sat as if he had known about it, but he paused when he saw that he was not alone.

The elf watched Saeldian as Saeldian watched the elf: as if neither of them could quite believe their luck. Could it be? Could he be?

His hair was too light, but Saeldian had their mother’s dark frizzy curls. His skin was too pale too, but Saeldian spent every moment outside. He didn’t look like he fed geese or pulled weeds. He looked fancy, and rich—richer than anyone Saeldian had ever seen before.

Saeldian had pressed their fingers into the newest bruise Mr. Wheeler had left and wished as hard as they’d ever wished.

And then this elf had come to Saeldian’s wishing rock: a little clearing where the aspens stood in a ring and gazed at the flat sandstone slab in the center.

Perhaps it had not been a deer that had flattened the grass and the bluebells after all, but their wish come true.

“Good morning,” the elf said.

“Are you my father?” Saeldian asked.

The elf backed up half a step.

All those wishes for nothing, then. All those bruises pressed to carry the wish away on something, all those times Saeldian imagined their father coming back, how he would take their hand and lead them away from the mean little house where their mother lived and the mean little man who hated them.

But all their wishes had never worked, never.

“Oh, my dear,” the elf said, and his voice was soft and beautiful. “How alone you are.”

He dropped to his knees in the bluebells beside Saeldian then, his careful hand on their shoulder. “You are young. Cry. It’s all right. You’ve had quite a day.”

His handkerchief was soft and clean, and he patted their tears patiently. He lifted their arm and traced his finger over the purple-over-green bruises and said, “Who did this to you?”

“Mr. Wheeler,” Saeldian said. “My mother’s husband.”

The elf tilted his head. “Ah. I understand. Your father was an elf.”

“But you’re not him.”

The elf smoothed Saeldian’s hair away from their gently pointed ear. “No, little elf-human. I’ve never been this way before. But you were hoping, were you not, for someone to come?”

Saeldian looked up. “How did you know?”

“Because I’m here.” The elf lifted one arm to catch the sunlight in his hand. His fingers curled and spread, and the sunlight became fluttering wings. A yellow butterfly came near the sunlit double, curious.

“Magic!”

He smiled at Saeldian’s amazement. “Indeed. Have you seen magic before?”

“I saw a storyteller once. She made things disappear and reappear. But real things, not made of light.”

“That sounds like clever tricks.” He turned his hand palm down so delicately, and the sunlight became a leaf, shivering so much that Saeldian thought they could hear it whisper too.

“Not real magic, like yours.”

He winked and flourished his fingers. A coin rested on his palm. “Sometimes the trick to make something look like it vanished is even better than a spell.”

He turned his hand over. The coin never fell. He showed them his empty palm, then showed them the coin in his other hand. “See? A trick. But a trick can do things that magic cannot.”

“How did you do that?”

He winked. “It’s a secret. But as I was saying. I’m hopelessly lost. I had nothing to guide me here but a feeling. I liked this place. It felt secret. Your secret, I see.”

“I don’t mind,” Saeldian rushed to assure him. “Maybe it’s a fey place.”

“I believe you’re right,” the elf said after surveying the wishing rock and the whispering aspens. “I could step back into the Feywild from here. That rock would do for a way in or out.”

“Are you from the Feywild, Mister?”

“It’s supposed to be a secret.” His smile let Saeldian in on it. “But I have an idea. First, introductions. We’ve gotten a bit out of step. I am the Archfey Osalor. I command a domain of the Feywild, and my proper address is ‘my lord.’ ”

Saeldian tensed. They’d gotten it wrong. Disrespectfully wrong. “I’m sorry, my lord!”

“Don’t be afraid, dear child,” Osalor said. “You’ve been living among humans. You didn’t know. And now that you know, you will never make that mistake again, will you?”

Saeldian shook their head. “No, my lord.”

“Then there is nothing to fear. What is your name?”

“I’m Saeldian.”

He waited.

Saeldian hung their head. “I’m not supposed to use Wheeler.”

“Good day, Saeldian,” Osalor said, very seriously. “I’m going to teach you something. Stand up, all on your own.”

Saeldian obeyed and waited under Osalor’s inspection.

He tilted his head, thoughtful but not smiling. Saeldian wanted to wipe their face, hide the stain on their tunic, but he shushed before they could apologize again.

“You’re not in trouble. But you stand like a human,” he said.

“Let’s correct it. How you stand tells people who you are.

Lift your head—not your chin, my dear. Your head.

Draw up high and powerful. Good. Now draw your head back so it feels like it’s balanced perfectly on your neck.

There! You’re already taller. Very good. ”

Every time Osalor said good, it felt like the sunlight was happier to shine on Saeldian. He directed every detail until Saeldian stood more carefully than they ever had, then said, “There. How does it feel?”

So strange. Too proud. But this was how Osalor stood, and he thought Saeldian should be proud too. “It’s hard.”

“Then practice. You can feel it, though, can’t you? You’re balanced. You already look more graceful. You’ll see what standing in grace will do.”

“Thank you,” Saeldian said, and corrected their shoulder position automatically. “For teaching me.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Osalor backed up to sit on the wishing rock. “May I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“I think I know what you asked for when you made a wish. You wished for your father to come back, didn’t you?” Osalor said. “To protect you from Mr. Wheeler.”

“To take me away,” Saeldian said. “Will you do that? Will you take me to the Feywild?”

“I cannot,” Osalor said. His serious expression wished that he could, though. “I am in very grave danger. I fled from a witch. They want something of mine, something very important. I came here to hide it.”

“Here? In Priapurl?”

Milkweed fluff drifted on the breeze, spinning as if dancing to unheard music. Osalor smiled again. “I think it would be safer if I could leave it in the care of someone who would guard it.”

Saeldian leaned back. “From a witch?”

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re only a child. But here’s where we bargain, you see. If you keep it safe, I can give you the power to make sure you are safe forever, and no one can hurt you again.”

No one could hurt them again? “How?”

Osalor stood up. “I will give you magic.”

And then he vanished.

He wasn’t there. No shadow fell on the ground; no ripple of bent light obscured their view. Saeldian hopped to their feet and turned in a circle, looking for the elf—no, the archfey—in the shadows.

“Lord Osalor?”

“Right in front of you,” came the voice, and then Osalor appeared again.

But now he was taller, more beautiful, somehow.

He was already the most beautiful person they’d ever seen.

Now he glowed. Every movement was as delicate and vivid as when he had made sunlight turn into a butterfly, and then a leaf, and now a crown.

Saeldian wanted to impress him, to do something good that would make him smile…

because anything that would make him smile was the right thing to do.

He snapped his fingers, and the feeling broke like a slender thread. Osalor no longer towered, robed in sunshine and something that made Saeldian feel the need to be pleasing. He had twigs in his hair. He was still beautiful, but that was all.

He had done it with magic. And he was going to give Saeldian magic so they could protect the thing Osalor wanted to hide.

“I see you understand. You’ll be able to do that too, eventually. If you’ll agree to my bargain.”

Saeldian could do that, with power? He’d teach them? “What is it?”

“You asked for details first,” Osalor said. “Good. Smart. Always know what you’re getting into.”

He reached into the neck of his robe and lifted a round, carefully edged locket on a chain. “This is an amulet. I want you to guard it, to never let it go, and in exchange, you will have fey magic.”

Saeldian watched it swing and glitter in the afternoon light. “And the witch won’t find me?”

“You’ll be here in Faer?n,” Osalor said. “I’ll go back to the Feywild, and she will look for me. She’ll never imagine I let it out of my hands, because it’s so precious. And you will be strong, with the same powers I have, from your pact.”

“Will I be able to do what you did? Look tall and beautiful like you?”

“You will be able to make people see what you want them to see,” Osalor promised.

“You will be beautiful, or frightening, or so anonymous people barely notice you are there. You can even make them feel what you want them to feel, for a few minutes. Long enough for you to get your way…or get away. You will be powerful, and no one will ever hurt you again.”

Saeldian giggled, answering his smile at his own joke. They stuck out their hand, palm up. “I’ll do it.”

“Wait—” Osalor lifted the amulet out of Saeldian’s reach. “We’re not done. I have told you what I will give you. What will you give me?”

What did they have? Nothing. A stolen cookie, and that wouldn’t be enough. “I don’t have anything to give. I don’t have any gold,” Saeldian said.

“Gold’s not worth enough for this,” Osalor said. “Whatever you offer, you can never have it again. Can you sing?”

“No.”

“That would have been too easy,” Osalor said with a shrug. “And that would have been precious. I don’t want to ask for something it would hurt you to give. It could be something that could hurt you to have.”

“Do you want Mr. Wheeler?”

Osalor laughed. “How perfectly bloodthirsty! I like you.”

Saeldian wanted Osalor to like them more than anything in the world.

The elf gave a thoughtful nod. “But there’s an idea. Why don’t you give me the thing that hurts you the most?”

He didn’t mean Mr. Wheeler’s ugly words and angry hands. That wasn’t what hurt the most. And when Saeldian looked up at Osalor, they knew they had the answer.

“My heart?”

“My dear. My protégé,” Osalor said, his voice gone soft and admiring. “The symmetry is stunning! It’s perfect. I accept.”

He lifted the amulet from around his head and draped it over Saeldian’s. “Hold it to your heart, and repeat your pact to me. Osalor, my protector…”