Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #15 June 2015 | Seite 43

And of course, there are the wings. Thin, translucent
dragonfly wings sprouted from the ridge of Rhin’s
shoulders and hung down his back, hugging the contours of his armour and body and glistening blue and
gold. The Fae lost the power of flight centuries ago.
Their wings are weaker now, but they still have their
uses.

circle.
‘Pagget doesn’t have a clue,’ he groused. ‘Nobody has
any idea.’
‘That’s …’
‘An outrage. Yes, I know. And guess what? That’s not
even the worst part.’

Four years had passed since Rhin had crawled out of
the bushes and straight onto Merion’s lap, bleeding
and vomiting. Merion had been just a young boy, only
nine at the time, and the sight of a strange grey creature with armour and dragonfly wings, sliding in and
out of consciousness, would have frightened any child
half to death, but not Merion.

‘Not the worst …? What could be worse than …’ the
faerie gestured at the slick of blood on the marble
steps. ‘… that?’

Rhin crossed his arms, making the scales of his armour rattle. He tapped his claw-like nails on the
metal. It was in need of a polish. ‘It’s not right, what
was done to your father. Roots know I didn’t know the
man, but he didn’t deserve this, and neither do you.
Neither do we.’ Rhin bowed his head. ‘Like I said, I’m
sorry, Merion.’
The lump in the young Hark’s throat had returned, this
time with vengeance. Maybe it was the faerie’s condolences, maybe it was the crimson streak in the corner
of his eye, or perhaps it was the crumpled fist of papers by his side, Merion didn’t know, but he knew his
lip was wobbling. He knew it was all suddenly terribly
real.
Real men cannot be seen to cry.

Merion swallowed hard, and tucked his lip under his
top teeth, biting down. He nodded and, when he trusted himself to speak without his voice cracking, he said
‘Thank you.’

Merion stamped his foot and paced out a tight, angry

Rhin looked worried. ‘Yes, but what is it?’
Merion pinched the bridge of his nose and swallowed
again. Say it out loud and, who knows, it just might
sound a little better, he told himself. ‘We have to move
to America.’ No, no better.
Rhin’s lavender eyes grew wide. ‘The New Kingdom?
Why?’
‘My father left instructions, Rhin. All of Harker Sheer,
all of his other estates, all of his money. It’s mine now,
but not until I turn eighteen.’ Merion aimed a kick at
the base of the fountain. ‘And in the meantime I, we,
have to go live with my aunt, in Wyoming.’
‘And where the hell is that?’

More of his father’s parting words.

Rhin shuffled his feet and ran an absent hand through
his short, wild hair. Jet-black it was, and thick, slicked
back and cropped short at the sides. ‘Do they know
who did it?’ he asked quietly.

Merion turned and brandished the folded paper. ‘This!
It’s an abomination. A disgrace. An insult!’

‘In the western deserts of America, the arse-end of
nowhere, to put it plainly. Full of filthy rail workers,
peasants, sand, and horses and cows, no doubt.’
Rhin rubbed his chin. ‘It sounds perfect,’ he said. Merion was about to snort when he realised there hadn’t
been the faintest tremor of sarcasm in Rhin’s words.
He stared down at the faerie.
‘You’re serious?’
Rhin shrugged. ‘It’s the perfect escape.’

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