Read Online The Fairy Letters: A FROST Series(TM) Novel by Kailin Gow - Free Book Online
Authors: Kailin Gow
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culmination – only in our love is the great magic of the
world consummated. Not the spells of the pixies, not the magic tools of our
soldiers, not even our respective royal magic can compare to it. I believe
that, Breena – I have to believe it, if I am not to lose all hope. In our love
there is something more than mere desire. There is true magic.
Letter 8
My Dearest
Breena,
Writing
to you as I did about our kiss brought to mind an old fable told by my mother.
She spoke often, as I have written to you, about Queen Tamara, the great Queen
who never loved, and whose military victories and powerful magical powers were
known throughout Feyland. But she spoke sometimes about the tragedy of Tamara's
older brother, he who would have been king. For Tamara's brother Artaud, much
like a certain Winter Prince you might recognize, fell in love with a mortal
girl on his quests beyond the Crystal River – a girl called Josefina. My mother
loved to recount to me and Shasta, when we were children, about the foolishness
of Artaud and Josefina. For Artaud carried his maiden, so-much-beloved, back to
his lair, in the hopes of making her his queen and ruling Feyland with her –
much to the consternation of Tamara, his younger sister, who had hoped to rule
and who, my mother was quick and keen to point out, deserved the title far more
than did her brother. But when they were married, at the great marriage-ceremony
in the heart of the Winter Palace, as he leaned in to kiss her his wings burst
forth from his tunic- great, scaly, silver things – just at the moment that his
lips touched her. Josefina screamed – she knew her beloved was a prince, but
she had not understood the power of magic until that moment – and as her terror
mixed in with the magic and love expressed by his kiss, the great magic of his
love was polluted, and instead of blessing Josefina, it cursed her, sending her
mad. It is this story that forms the basis of the tradition of which I have
spoken to you, the idea that a fairy's kiss sends a human mad.
In
her raging insanity, Josefina jumped from the balcony of the palace, plummeting
to her death, and Artaud was so distraught at her demise that he grabbed his
father's sword – the most powerful sword in the land – and hacked off his own
wings from his back, silver pouring down from the wounds. Only once his wings
lay in a bloodied, messy pile on the floor did he rush forth to the balcony,
and in a single cry - “Josefina!” - filled with anguish and despair – did he
jump too, and with his immortality sacrificed (for not even the Snowflake can
protect against such a strong magical attack) he too died a human's death, and
Tamara ascended to the throne in her brother's stead.
“Now,
the moral of this story,” my mother used to tell me, “is that we have one wise
ruler and one foolish ruler. Which was the wise, and which was the foolish?” We
all, eager to gain my mother's reserved approval, chirped in unison that Artaud
was the foolish fairy, and Tamara the wise one.
But
we – by which I mean Shasta and I – never quite gained the approval that we
sought. I speak no ill of my mother. She was and is a brave woman, a courageous
woman, a woman who has sacrificed much – who was even forced to kill the man
she could not help but love in order to save her kingdom. I can never doubt
that, nor can I begrudge her her strength. But as a child, I did not crave
strength. From my mother and my father alike I craved affection, love – the
warmth of their arms and the sweetness of their kisses. I received such things
from neither. It was not in the fairy way – at least not at the Winter Court –
to display one's emotions openly. That is not what one did – especially not for
my mother, who even more than my father, took seriously what she perceived to
be the ancient traditions of the Winter Court, and hence of Feyland (for she,
like all good Winter patriots, believed that the Winter traditions were
world consummated. Not the spells of the pixies, not the magic tools of our
soldiers, not even our respective royal magic can compare to it. I believe
that, Breena – I have to believe it, if I am not to lose all hope. In our love
there is something more than mere desire. There is true magic.
Letter 8
My Dearest
Breena,
Writing
to you as I did about our kiss brought to mind an old fable told by my mother.
She spoke often, as I have written to you, about Queen Tamara, the great Queen
who never loved, and whose military victories and powerful magical powers were
known throughout Feyland. But she spoke sometimes about the tragedy of Tamara's
older brother, he who would have been king. For Tamara's brother Artaud, much
like a certain Winter Prince you might recognize, fell in love with a mortal
girl on his quests beyond the Crystal River – a girl called Josefina. My mother
loved to recount to me and Shasta, when we were children, about the foolishness
of Artaud and Josefina. For Artaud carried his maiden, so-much-beloved, back to
his lair, in the hopes of making her his queen and ruling Feyland with her –
much to the consternation of Tamara, his younger sister, who had hoped to rule
and who, my mother was quick and keen to point out, deserved the title far more
than did her brother. But when they were married, at the great marriage-ceremony
in the heart of the Winter Palace, as he leaned in to kiss her his wings burst
forth from his tunic- great, scaly, silver things – just at the moment that his
lips touched her. Josefina screamed – she knew her beloved was a prince, but
she had not understood the power of magic until that moment – and as her terror
mixed in with the magic and love expressed by his kiss, the great magic of his
love was polluted, and instead of blessing Josefina, it cursed her, sending her
mad. It is this story that forms the basis of the tradition of which I have
spoken to you, the idea that a fairy's kiss sends a human mad.
In
her raging insanity, Josefina jumped from the balcony of the palace, plummeting
to her death, and Artaud was so distraught at her demise that he grabbed his
father's sword – the most powerful sword in the land – and hacked off his own
wings from his back, silver pouring down from the wounds. Only once his wings
lay in a bloodied, messy pile on the floor did he rush forth to the balcony,
and in a single cry - “Josefina!” - filled with anguish and despair – did he
jump too, and with his immortality sacrificed (for not even the Snowflake can
protect against such a strong magical attack) he too died a human's death, and
Tamara ascended to the throne in her brother's stead.
“Now,
the moral of this story,” my mother used to tell me, “is that we have one wise
ruler and one foolish ruler. Which was the wise, and which was the foolish?” We
all, eager to gain my mother's reserved approval, chirped in unison that Artaud
was the foolish fairy, and Tamara the wise one.
But
we – by which I mean Shasta and I – never quite gained the approval that we
sought. I speak no ill of my mother. She was and is a brave woman, a courageous
woman, a woman who has sacrificed much – who was even forced to kill the man
she could not help but love in order to save her kingdom. I can never doubt
that, nor can I begrudge her her strength. But as a child, I did not crave
strength. From my mother and my father alike I craved affection, love – the
warmth of their arms and the sweetness of their kisses. I received such things
from neither. It was not in the fairy way – at least not at the Winter Court –
to display one's emotions openly. That is not what one did – especially not for
my mother, who even more than my father, took seriously what she perceived to
be the ancient traditions of the Winter Court, and hence of Feyland (for she,
like all good Winter patriots, believed that the Winter traditions were
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