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Chapter 17
In Which I Prepare for War
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Evening found mytent converted to my own third-world sweatshop full of busy Brownies, all in various colors like the pillows. Dragonfly had also fetched several look-alike friends—none with wings, however. Clearly she was a little queen amongst them. Complete with preening.
They all gaily sewed and sang. It could have been a scene from the animated Christmas specials that had populated my childhood. Now I wondered how much of those stories pulled from this world. I asked Larch if any of his people lived in a place that was always ice and snow. He just gave me the standard puzzled look and bent back to his work. At least I had the sense not to ask him about the jolly fat guy in a red outfit.
I’d tweaked the spell a little, so that the stuffing-floss would transfer its properties to like material. Larch assured me it was standard stuffing, made from a shrub that was good for little else. To make a new Loden Pillow, the Brownies took a strand of floss from the mother-pillow—their term, not mine—opened a seam in a daughter-pillow, and tucked the strand deep inside. Once the pillow was resewed, they smacked it hard and said “Loden” three times. The small spark spread from within, replicating outward until the whole pillow glowed. The Dragonfly girlies were allowed to sew seams but not touch the stuffing. Seemed sexist to me, but since the girls didn’t protest Larch’s arrangement, I stayed out of it.
I hoped the Brownies’ belief in the spell might help to sustain the magic in the pillows so it wouldn’t wear off when I wasn’t around. The philodendron and the pedestal had faded away at some point. Had they become pillows again or just kind of dissolved when I wasn’t looking? During my training, whatever I converted or created was usually gone the next day—I never knew exactly what became of it.
Something else to chase down if I was to understand the limits of my own abilities and up my chances of defeating Rogue. And finding a way out of this freakish world. I really needed to start keeping notes.
It seemed to please the Brownies to be making magic. In the stories, their ability to accomplish work like this was magical in and of itself, as I recalled, so in theory they ought to be able to make Loden Pillows forever, without my adding anything more. Then they’d have a business enterprise beside sacrificing pages to fire. I’d also modified the spell so that the light glowed in three levels of brightness—might as well have flexibility in our lighting design.
As the Loden Pillows piled up, Larch called in runners to distribute the light-up cushions back to the camp. Darling, as self-appointed quality tester, pounced repeatedly on the pillows, bouncing them from soft to bright to brightest and off again, which, together with the light flashes from the pillow-creators, created an almost disco effect that oddly complemented the brisk harmonies of the faerie song.
And faerie singing it was. Just as the stories had it. Luminous, with nearly inaudible harmonies. Birdsong, the roaring of bears and the insistent buzz of cicadas wound through in complex counterpoints. It was beautiful, compelling and profoundly disturbing. I found myself falling into a trancelike state, compulsively repeating the melodies and rhythms in my mind.
Until I came back to myself with an abrupt shake. Like when you were falling asleep, just sliding into dream images and your foot went off the step andboom!you startled awake. Common thinking was that it was probably a kind of brainstem reboot. That your brain was in danger of shutting down completely, rather than just into sleep mode.
Interesting that the faerie song had that hypnotic effect on the human brain.
When this happened, revulsion would seize and sicken me, taking me back to the state of my early training days. Post-traumatic stress, no doubt. Too bad I’d never learned any clinical psychology. With great effort, I concentrated on hearing their songs only as uncanny music. Though, as with Rogue’s haunting offers, the potential to slide under its influence continued to nibble at my less-than-firm state of mind. Really I needed to get away from it. A problem, since I had nowhere to go.
The revelry outside the tent rose as the sun set, though the general feel of the camp seemed more sedate than last night. Our runners reported favorable reactions to the Loden Pillows, with orders placed for specific colors and shapes. After the first few Brownie-delivery-boys returned, I spotted Larch and Dragonfly in deep conference. When I wondered about it, one of Dragonfly’s wingless cohorts chirped that they were setting up a supply tent.
“What for?” I asked.
“Why, to house all the stuff.”
Curious—and seizing the impetus to leave the tent, I ventured outside for the second time that day. This time I’d move farther than the grassy space in front. My breast twinged and I tamped down the fear.Get a grip. You are stronger than this.
Soft evening filled the sky, in dusky hues that reminded me of Rogue’s lily. Diabolical lily, I reminded myself. The air carried a bit of moisture from the waterfall, mixing with the scent of flowers and fruit. No cooking smells. Where did Dragonfly get her endless supply of the snack trays that sustained me? Who had cooked the dinner last night?
It felt good to be out of the crowded tent. I probably shouldn’t be hiding. Yes, I had been working, doing productive things, but it was also an excuse to brood, holed up like a frightened cat under the bed. No one had said I couldn’t walk around outside.
I did, however, keep a wary eye out for Falcon as I circled my tent. The dappled glow of pillow-illumination colored nearby tents, some flashing rhythmically to the eerie faerie chants. All we needed was John Travolta in a white suit to complete the look. Maybe the three-light level concept wasn’t such a great one. Who knew the Bee Gees’ nasal falsetto harmonies were evocative of faerie song?
Dragonfly and Larch stood in the open area behind my kaleidoscope tent, supervising the erection of another cream-colored tent. She snapped out orders, a mini-Napoleon, and he watched gravely as poles were sunk into the ground. Their apparent minions worked with meek and ferocious speed.
“Be quick there,” Dragonfly squealed, rapping one of the knee-high guys with a stick, “or Her Lady Majesty Sorceress will turn you into a toad!”
“Oh?” I said behind her.
Which was a bad idea, since she wheeled around, managing to slap Larch in the face with one wing and nearly overbalancing herself. I stopped her spluttering with a raised hand.
“Be careful what you threaten in my name, Dragonfly.” Crystal tears welled up in her eyes, but I drew on the coldness Scourge had instilled in me to steady my resolve. “So, Larch—why do I need a supply tent?”
“Tributes, my lady.” He indicated a pile of wooden boxes, cloth, even a basket of fruit. “And we’ll need to create more pillows to keep up with demand. Already we’ve converted nearly a third of the extant pillows in the camp. I’ve arranged to import silk and stuffing from a nearby tribe.”
“Tribe?”
“Of The People.”
Interesting that the word translated in my head astribe,notgrouportownorcity.“Okay, so this stuff—” I indicated the pile, “—is in return for our Loden Pillows?”
