him when they were out. But a disgusting, slobbering drunk had latched onto him the minute he had walked in, blabbering utter nonsense. He asked if the King had heard of the Wilderene Flower. When the answer was no, the drunk proceeded to tell of a flower with a pollen that cured all ills, a scent that would grant one wish and thorns that would kill you instantly upon touching your blood.
The King had listened patiently to the story, but when the drunk asked him for a little cuddle and a slow dance he was out of there.
King Cyril the Curious consulted Faydon early the next day. Faydon did his research and confirmed that the drunkâs story was indeed true. The one existing Wilderene Flower lay ten daysâ march from the kingdom, eight days if the Plains of Obon were crossed. Faydon said there was great danger awaiting any who dared cross the plains, as it was a crossing rarely successfully completed. The Wilderene Flower would be found growing at the base of a great oak tree, fully three metres in diameter and fifty metres high. The flower was guarded by a beast so terrifying it was better to die than to escape alive with the memories. The King had just laughed, and decided then and there that he would lead an expedition to capture the flower. Only then would his immortality be assured. He declared to Faydon that he would search for the flower, he would cross the Plains of Obon, and he would return triumphant.
A hissing voice jolted Cyril back to reality.
âYour Majesty?â
The King swung around to see Faydon at the entrance to his chambers. He had snuck in silently, sliding along the shadows. There was a smile on Faydonâs pointed face. He looked like a little rat, with his squinty eyes and long, sharp front teeth. No tail though. He didnât have fleas either ⦠as far as anyone knew.
âFaydon. Must you always sneak up on me?â
âMy apologies, Sire. I wanted to congratulate you on the reception to your speech.â
The Kingâs smile returned.
âYes. Yes, they loved it didnât they?â
Faydon nodded then slipped up close to his ruler, speaking quietly.
âYou are their King, Sire, and they do love you now. Perhaps you should stay here and rule your people and I shall retrieve the flower for you.â
The King thought for an instant, then with a smile decided against Faydonâs idea.
âI see what youâre trying to do Faydon, and I like it. You want me to stay safe here, away from any danger. It is a nice thought and you are a fine advisor, but I will be coming along on the journey. I want that flower and I want that wish.â
Faydon nodded, backing slowly out of the room as the King began admiring his profile once more, oblivious to all but his reflection. A wicked grin spread across Faydonâs face as he slipped further into the shadows, speaking in a low voice intended only for himself.
âYes, your Majesty, you and your men may be required, but perhaps it will not be you who gets the flower in the end.â
The shadows consumed him.
Back at the Main Stage, the Tellings were getting into full swing. Pete McGee was having a ball. The most recent Teller had spoken of meeting a creature so small that it sat in the palm of his hand. He spoke of the fear he saw in the tiny creatureâs eyes, fear that was replaced first with false bravado and finally kindness. They had spoken of their respective species, their families, and had promised to meet again. Pete imagined himself as the tiny creature. How would he react if a giant picked him up? If it ever happened, he certainly hoped the giant would be as kind as the Teller, and not one of those giants that just crushes you and eats you on toast or something.
The next Teller was a woman. Well, a girl really, for she couldnât have been over eighteen years of age. Her clothes were dirty and brown, rags hanging loosely over her thin frame. Pete wondered what she could possibly have been