his keen sword and with a brutal smile, plunged it pitilessly into Opal’s heart.
Adrien arrived only in time to catch Opal’s lifeless body in his arms. As he held her, his garments stained with her scarlet blood, he thought she had never looked so lovely, serene even in death. With tears in his eyes, he pressed his lips to Opal’s still warm, soft mouth.
“I loved her,” he said simply.
The Knights of the Order looked at one another. They were used to weeping and lamentation, to shouts of accusation — none of that could touch their hearts any more. Enough: it was time to get the job done.
But Adrien continued, in a sad, steady voice that did not seem to belong to him: “It’s not your fault.”
The knights stiffened in surprise.
“You were trained to fight and to kill. It’s your job, and you do it well. You are men who know how to bear arms better than anyone else.”
The knights grew more and more astonished.
Quietly, Adrien took Opal’s Stone from its black velvet purse and held it tightly, as she had done before.
“And yet,” he continued, “you have forgotten themost important thing. You all have hearts, you can feel love. And that is what makes you real men.”
His audience nodded slowly and, strangely enough, not one of them ventured to raise his sword again.
“You have killed the one I loved,” said Adrien, “but I do not reproach you for it.”
Was it Adrien’s words that moved the knights, or the vision of the young man bearing Opal’s dead body? Or did the Stone release some kind of magic? No one would ever know.
Then Adrien said with great dignity, “If you are men, you know what you must do now.”
And a Knight of the Order, hesitantly, sheathed his sword. The others followed his example. They were not sure they had done the right thing, but something deep inside them had impelled them to make their decision.
Turning his back to them, Adrien walked towards the magnetic field. He held tight to the Stone, choking back tears. He was now one with Opal. She had loved him. He loved her.
He passed easily through the magnetic field of Fairytale. Although hope had failed, love had triumphed over the impossible.
C HAPTER T WELVE
The Nameless One
THE WOUND WAS deep: a bloody gash on his left forearm. The day before, he’d had to fight off the Bumblinks, wicked creatures who were rife in the northern forest of Fairytale. He had tried to travel through the woods instead of spending long, arduous days going around them, a decision he now regretted. The forest was teeming with evil spirits who resented any human presence. In just the last three days he had already fought two battles, and his horse had been killed in one of them. Luckily, night was now closing in, and the inhabitants of the forest were settling down to sleep.
He had come to a stop in one of the few clearings, and he felt completely drained. Suddenly he heard a sound, and with his good hand, swiftly drew his gleaming sword. A form appeared. The young man waited, on his guard. The stranger drew near: short, stocky, he wore an ample dark green tunic and at his waist, a sword. It was impossible to tell his exact age, for although a few lines furrowed his brow, his expression was still youthful. An unruly shock of light blond hair fell over his forehead. His nose was small and flat, his lips pale but full. His eyebrows, like his hair, were fine and almost white, while his large, dark eyes seemed merry, yet at the same time wise with experience. Although he was smiling broadly and seemed friendly, something about him hinted that he could prove a formidable foe if the situation demanded it. Was he human? At first glance, his appearance was very much that of a man. But on closer inspection his skin revealed a slight silvery sheen.
“Sheathe your sword, stranger!” cried the creature. “My intentions are peaceful.”
The young man with the wounded arm hesitated at first, unconvinced, but after a moment’s reflectionhe
Adrien arrived only in time to catch Opal’s lifeless body in his arms. As he held her, his garments stained with her scarlet blood, he thought she had never looked so lovely, serene even in death. With tears in his eyes, he pressed his lips to Opal’s still warm, soft mouth.
“I loved her,” he said simply.
The Knights of the Order looked at one another. They were used to weeping and lamentation, to shouts of accusation — none of that could touch their hearts any more. Enough: it was time to get the job done.
But Adrien continued, in a sad, steady voice that did not seem to belong to him: “It’s not your fault.”
The knights stiffened in surprise.
“You were trained to fight and to kill. It’s your job, and you do it well. You are men who know how to bear arms better than anyone else.”
The knights grew more and more astonished.
Quietly, Adrien took Opal’s Stone from its black velvet purse and held it tightly, as she had done before.
“And yet,” he continued, “you have forgotten themost important thing. You all have hearts, you can feel love. And that is what makes you real men.”
His audience nodded slowly and, strangely enough, not one of them ventured to raise his sword again.
“You have killed the one I loved,” said Adrien, “but I do not reproach you for it.”
Was it Adrien’s words that moved the knights, or the vision of the young man bearing Opal’s dead body? Or did the Stone release some kind of magic? No one would ever know.
Then Adrien said with great dignity, “If you are men, you know what you must do now.”
And a Knight of the Order, hesitantly, sheathed his sword. The others followed his example. They were not sure they had done the right thing, but something deep inside them had impelled them to make their decision.
Turning his back to them, Adrien walked towards the magnetic field. He held tight to the Stone, choking back tears. He was now one with Opal. She had loved him. He loved her.
He passed easily through the magnetic field of Fairytale. Although hope had failed, love had triumphed over the impossible.
C HAPTER T WELVE
The Nameless One
THE WOUND WAS deep: a bloody gash on his left forearm. The day before, he’d had to fight off the Bumblinks, wicked creatures who were rife in the northern forest of Fairytale. He had tried to travel through the woods instead of spending long, arduous days going around them, a decision he now regretted. The forest was teeming with evil spirits who resented any human presence. In just the last three days he had already fought two battles, and his horse had been killed in one of them. Luckily, night was now closing in, and the inhabitants of the forest were settling down to sleep.
He had come to a stop in one of the few clearings, and he felt completely drained. Suddenly he heard a sound, and with his good hand, swiftly drew his gleaming sword. A form appeared. The young man waited, on his guard. The stranger drew near: short, stocky, he wore an ample dark green tunic and at his waist, a sword. It was impossible to tell his exact age, for although a few lines furrowed his brow, his expression was still youthful. An unruly shock of light blond hair fell over his forehead. His nose was small and flat, his lips pale but full. His eyebrows, like his hair, were fine and almost white, while his large, dark eyes seemed merry, yet at the same time wise with experience. Although he was smiling broadly and seemed friendly, something about him hinted that he could prove a formidable foe if the situation demanded it. Was he human? At first glance, his appearance was very much that of a man. But on closer inspection his skin revealed a slight silvery sheen.
“Sheathe your sword, stranger!” cried the creature. “My intentions are peaceful.”
The young man with the wounded arm hesitated at first, unconvinced, but after a moment’s reflectionhe
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