Bernard sat astride the massive draft horse awkwardly.

Bernard sat astride the massive draft horse awkwardly. His name was Bert, and he was slower than a tortoise stuck in a ditch. No amount of nudging or prodding to go faster seemed to get through to him. Bernard suspected Bert might be so musclebound he was physically unable to detect such minor sensations. At least he was going in the right direction.

The two walked along the edge of the road, leaving as much space as possible for other traffic to pass them. A lot of traffic passed them. Bernard was almost excited when they passed a mule-drawn wagon. He wished he’d brought a book to read, though that wouldn’t have helped him maintain his peasant disguise. He also had to leave his sword. Peasants only carried knives, normally. Bows if they were hunters, though around here all the 'hunters' would be poachers. These were the exclusive hunting grounds of the King.

By the time they reached the town by the fairy’s manor, it was noon, and quite warm. Bernard was glad he’d borrowed a wide-brimmed hat.

He spotted an old man sitting outside some kind of tavern, drinking and eating lunch. Bernard wasn’t sure if it was safe to ask around about the house. He’d been given good directions, so he wasn’t lost, but Gus didn’t have a lot to say about the place or its secret riddles. Bernard wanted more information.

It’d probably be okay, so long as he was careful not to say too much. He cleared his throat and attempted his best Gus impression;

‘Allo!’

‘Oh, hello there! Where’ve you come from?’

‘I’m from the city - I’m a bit lost though. I think I must’ve taken a wrong turn. Me Da said I’m s’posed to go by some fairy house, but all I’ve seen is normal houses.’

‘You’re on the right path, lad - it’s just a bit further by the edge of the woods.’

‘Does a fairy really live there?’

The man laughed.

‘Not anymore. Not since old King Luis shot her with his bow.’

‘He shot her?’

That wasn’t part of the story they’d been told when they were growing up. Gus hadn’t mentioned it either. Had it been suppressed?

‘Yeah, three times. She abandoned us after that.’

‘I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want to be shot by a king. Why’d he shoot her, though? Didn't he know she was a fairy?’

‘Apparently, back then it was all the rage for noblemen to propose marriage to the fairy. They’d send her gifts of all sorts to try to woo her. She turned ‘em all down. She’d been turning them down for sixty years, so they knew they had no hope. Didn’t stop King Luis taking offence to it. He shot her ‘cuz he was sore.’

‘That’s daft.’

‘Yer not wrong.’

‘But, didn’t he get a magic sword from her?’

‘He did.’

‘Why’d she give it to him if he shot her?’

‘That was forty years later. Maybe she forgave him. Who knows the ways of fairies and Kings.’

‘Where does she live now?’

‘A mountain somewhere. Don’t know which one. There’s a map in the old house, but it has no markers to point to where she went.’

‘Does anyone live there? Would they let me look?’

‘Nobody lives there now. It’s empty, apart from those nobleman’s portraits. The fairy took everything else with her when she left. Nobody wanted to move in, in case it was haunted or cursed.’

He nodded, absently. It made sense. He wouldn’t want to live in a fairy’s old house either.

‘Did you ever see her yourself? When she lived here, I mean.’

‘I did. When I was a little’un. I remember her being tall and pretty.’

The old man trailed off. Bernard wasn’t sure if it was less polite to leave quietly or disturb the man by saying goodbye. He decided it would be weird not to say something.

‘Thank you for your help, mister.’

‘Not at all. You stay safe, now, y’hear?’

Bernard tied Bert’s reins to a lattice by the front door while he went exploring on foot. The manor was small, by manor standards. The garden wasn’t terribly overgrown, but the house was definitely abandoned. The front door was unlocked, and inside, the floors were coated in dust. The lack of clear shoe prints suggested no humans had been inside for quite a while. Little footprints left by mice and other small animals suggested it was still an appealing shelter for other creatures.

The old man had been telling the truth. The house was bare. Bernard had gone through ten large rooms without any distinguishing features before he found one that sported ink stains across the floor and up the walls. It was odd. Odder yet was the room with the words ‘Gallery of Conformists’ painted above the door. Alcoves lined the walls. The alcoves were marked with family names, and full of paintings wrapped in cloth. Bernard took one down and unwrapped it, just out of curiosity. It was a suggestively posed portrait of a man laying in a bed of roses. He re-wrapped it and put it back.

It didn’t take long to find his own family name. The portrait he removed from this alcove was his father’s. It had been painted when the man wasn’t much older than Bernard. He had his hat at a jaunty angle and one hand resting delicately on the hilt of a rapier with the point stuck in the ground. He had more clothes on than the man with the roses, but it felt just as sexual.

It was a little difficult to reconcile. This haughty young man was his father. His father. It was hard to believe that he had once been young.

He also looked a lot like Lothar.

Bernard returned it to the alcove, feeling disconcerted.

There were portraits for his grandfather and great-grandfather as well. He didn’t feel comfortable looking at them.

Continuing his search, he located the room with the map. Other than the thick dust, it wasn’t even slightly hidden. He took off his coat, and beat it against the wall to clear the filth. Once the cloud settled (and he stopped sneezing), Bernard surveyed the map properly. It was huge, wall to wall, and had been carved into the stone in low relief. It depicted the whole kingdom, and parts of the neighbouring kingdoms, with an excerpt from an old, asinine poem about how lovely the country was wrapped around the edge. The capital was marked, as were major towns and roads. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

He ran a finger along a mountain range, wondering if any of these peaks were the fairy’s home. He stepped back, glancing at the window. It was at the wrong angle for the sun to even hit the map. The riddle wasn't likely sun-related. He searched the room. He found no obvious apertures for special gems or staffs or other widgets.

He wondered how long it took his father to solve the map. The old man in the town said it was forty years between when he shot the fairy and got the sword. Was he trying to solve the riddle for forty years?

Where was the riddle?

He examined the text again. It was from a poem he was familiar with. He’d been made to read and recite it as part of his schooling. It was supposedly written by the kingdom’s founder, and somehow that made it extremely important for a prince’s education. Every word was as he remembered it. Utterly droll. The spelling was correct, there wasn’t any odd grammar. He couldn’t extract a riddle from it.

What must his father have been feeling when he stood here, certain this map held a key?

Regret? Remorse? Shame?

What would the fairy want from him before she let him meet her again? Did she tell him? Maybe she left a note with hints.

Bernard thought, if he were the fairy, he’d have wanted his attacker to apologise… but that’s not a word that appears in the poem, or anywhere on the map. Could he make the word? Not really. There was a city named Dendapol, but nothing with ‘logise’ in it. ‘Apology’ didn’t work either.

He considered each edge of the map separately, looking for a letter or word that stood out as unique. On the left border, he found only one instance of R, on the top border, P, on the left border, N, and the bottom border, T. R, P, N, T. It didn’t mean much. It probably wasn’t the answer.

Then he thought again. It did mean something. Rpnt - repent. The fairy wanted his father to repent.

He tried tracing lines between the letters, in order. It gave him an irregular quadrilateral shape to search within. It contained more mountains than his original estimates based on the overland speed of a horse. It definitely wasn’t the answer. He wrinkled his nose. Instead… he could draw lines that crossed, marking a single, precise location. He connected R to N and P to T. The intersection marked the west side of a mountain, a little less than a week’s ride from the castle.

How long had the fairy known she was going to be attacked? This map would have taken a skilled stonemason weeks to prepare… though he supposed she could have added the poem around the edges later. It still wouldn’t have been a quick job. And to mark a specific place with precision? Perhaps it wasn’t the solution. He frowned.

He took a bundle of parchment from his shirt anyway and untied the ribbon with his teeth. He’d take a rubbing of that part of the map and see if it led him to the fairy. He could always come back and try again. He held the page flat against the wall with difficulty and did his best to produce a copy of the map. It was passable. Barely. He folded it, then paused, considering where he should store it.

If he were stopped and searched and was found to have a map on him, someone might think it was a treasure map, or similar. He didn't want to accidentally send thieves to bother the fairy. He returned the blank pages to his shirt pocket and tucked the folded map into his boot.