by M. A. Grant
We don’t reach it. A huge thorned thicket blocks our path, erupted from the earth without any sign of purpose or reason. It’s a twisted sculpture of Seelie magick, with verdant leaves and glittering needlepoints of thorns. Blossoms dot its surface, though their perfume is more sickly than sweet. Keiran reaches out with his axe and pushes against the wall of roses. He grimaces when he pulls it back and inspects the weapon. “I don’t think these were originally red,” he says.
“No?” Cybel asks.
Keiran extends the head of the axe toward him. A thick red-brown smear remains on the wood and metal. “Blood,” he answers.
“I wonder if that’s where the bodies went,” I mumble.
Keiran shrugs, but the set of his jaw gives away his discomfort. “We should hurry,” he suggests.
“Give me some space then,” I order, sliding off Liath’s back and reaching up to drag off the wrapped body.
They obey me, albeit slowly. Keiran waits the longest, watching as I settle the body firmly over my shoulder. I don’t want to have to worry about losing my grip, not when such a distraction might give the shade an opportunity to slip inside my mind. I’ve seen its power. If I let it in, I may not be strong enough to force it out again. And I can feel its approach, its predatory slide toward me and my dearest friend, who’s already weakened from its first assault.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell Keiran. I’ve got to get him away from here. “Go.”
He makes a face, but takes Liath’s reins from me. He wheels Dubh around and rides back to his watch point. Once he’s out of earshot, I give in and heave a sigh of relief. “Thank the Goddess,” I mumble. The body shifts on my shoulder, so I adjust and try not to look at the shade directly. “Time for you to rest, eh?”
It hounds my steps into the thicket, darting away now and then as I kick my way past ferns and other newly born plants. The air in here feels different. Fresh. Full of a hopeful power I haven’t experienced before. Despite the carnage of the village around us, I’m tempted to stay for a while and see if I can figure out what made this unnatural oasis in the middle of a battlefield. But if I stay, Keiran will demand to stay too. I won’t risk that.
Near the center of the thicket, I heave the body to the ground. It lands with a soft thud. The shade comes to a rest beside me. Now that it’s distracted, I steal a moment to examine it fully. This one is different from the others I’ve seen. Its shape is distorted, as if it has too many bones to fit into what used to be its body. Its eyes are gone, replaced with the same mottled expanse of flesh covering the rest of its face. Its mouth can’t close fully; one side of the jaw hangs broken, and it gurgles pained sounds as it hovers over its corpse.
“There,” I announce. “You’re home. Now, fuck off and leave Keiran alone.”
The cold emanating from the shade’s form makes the air around us tighten. It reaches its claws toward me. I draw my seax and keep it at the ready. I doubt such a weapon will have an effect on a shade, but I refuse to be bullied any longer. The moment the blade catches the sunlight, the shade hesitates. This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.
“I upheld my end of the bargain,” I say. “I retrieved your body. I brought it home. I owe you nothing else.”
The shade’s hand wavers. Drops to its side. It turns back to its body and gives one final, low keen before fading into nothingness. I keep my knife up, listening intently and waiting for it to reappear.
I stand there until my heart’s frantic pace slows. No sign of the shade. I sheathe my knife with immense caution. There’s no promise it isn’t waiting until it thinks I’m weak. Yet even after I wait, unarmed, it doesn’t return. This new development isn’t heartening. I’ve never been able to exert any kind of influence over the shades haunting me. I’ve never been able to order them to obey me. But I’ve never felt them crawling underneath my skin while they share their memories, either.
New rules are being written without my knowledge, and my instinct tells me it ties to the man preying on inhabitants of the Wylds. He’s forcing them to reach out to me, so choosing to listen to them may be the only way to find peace. But at what cost?
“Lugh?” Keiran calls.
“All’s well.”
“Then get your ass out here,” he snaps back. Too bad he can’t hide the warmth or relief in the words. “We need to go.”
The entrance into the rose thicket lies before me. Daylight glows at the end of a verdant tunnel like a welcoming beacon. It’s broken by another shade crossing in front of the opening. For a moment, I question whether he’s still alive; he’s hardly faded at all, his features still visible despite the washed-out, pale colors. He’s clearly a Seelie, dressed in armor and decorated with an assortment of badges. His eyes are glued to the ground as he walks, his mouth pursed in apparent confusion, his movements clean and easy. He pauses in front of the thicket and turns toward me, exposing the cause of his death.
Even seeing the deep cavernous hole in his skull, I don’t feel a hint of danger, which is why I don’t try to escape when he moves toward me. Instead, when he reaches out his hand, I steel myself and let his incorporeal fingers brush against my arm.
Show, he whispers in my mind. His memories are strong and vivid, so recent, and there, on the farthest edges, the imprint of a familiar shadowy figure. Show, he repeats.
I swallow and try to reach back to him, to fall face-first into the memory. “Okay,” I whisper. “Show me.”
Keiran
He hasn’t emerged from the thicket yet. It shouldn’t take this long to lay a body to rest. Beneath me, Dubh shifts and pricks his ears forward. Beside us, Liath is far more relaxed, which is a good sign Dubh’s uncomfortable because of me. I try to relax my legs, but every small sound, every brush of wind, brings me back to attention and ruins my efforts.
Lugh asked for a moment. I can give him that. Well, I think I can.
Movement near the trees draws my attention. It’s only Armel adjusting his cloak. He watches the woods, leaving his back to the thicket. I envy the easy set of his shoulders. On our other watch corner, Cybel looks equally serene. Their faith in Lugh, and in each other’s ability to spot danger, is absolute. Mine should be too.
But Lugh won’t tell them about the shades and, based on his careful dance around the topic earlier, he expects me to keep his secret as well. Maybe he has a reason for it. I’m not sure how the men would react to the news that his visions are from the dead, or that the dead can influence his living body. Or is there another reason entirely for Lugh to hold to this silence? And does that mean he’s hiding something else from me?
The swirling doubts are almost enough to distract me from the sight of a figure stepping out of the thicket.
“Thank the gods,” I breathe and urge Dubh forward. At the sight of his master, Liath increases the pace, and the distance between us closes in no time.
Lugh turns to watch our approach, but I wonder if he really sees us. He’s pale and his lips are tinged with a hint of blue. His chestnut hair is darker, dampened with sweat, and he breathes like he just finished a battle. He has something wrapped up in the edge of his cloak, but it’s so tightly bound I can’t tell what it is. After a moment, he comes back to himself and reaches to stroke Liath’s cheek.
“What happened?” Maybe he’ll give me an answer before Armel and Cybel reach us.
He doesn’t take his saddle. He stands there and continues to pet Liath and waits for the other two to join us. He’s not ignoring me. He’s decided everyone deserves to hear the answer. Once Cybel and Armel arrive, he gives me a nod and says, “I know why we had to come here. We were meant to find proof for Aage.”
“Proof?” Cybel asks. “Proof of what?”
Lugh begins to walk, leading us away from the thicket and toward the maypole in the center of the village. The mud here is tinged with blood and I wrinkle my nose against the assailing stench of rotting animal
corpses. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve spent adventuring at Lugh’s side, killing monsters and defending allies, I’ve never grown used to the familiar scent of death. The lack of fae bodies makes more sense now. Someone already came to claim the dead.
“The village was attacked,” Lugh says. “It was meant to look like our Court did it.” He points to a scrap of fabric buried in the mud. He couldn’t have known it was there. We haven’t explored this place at all, yet he pointed as if he knew its exact location.
Cybel dismounts and lifts it. Even torn, the colors and the partial crest of the Winter Court are visible. It’s a different design than the carefully wrought skeletal tree I’m familiar with. This tree’s branches are cruder, the dark colors not as strong, but this is Queen Mab’s crest, without any doubt. Armel holds out his hand, and Cybel passes him the evidence.
“How is that possible?” Armel asks. The question isn’t directed to Lugh. It’s for Cybel, whose mouth is nothing but a tight line and whose hands pull on his saddle horn a little too hard as he gets back on his mount. “This is one of the banners we rode under in the war for independence. How did it get here, in Seelie lands?”
“More importantly,” Cybel says, “who would have betrayed the standard in such a way?”
Armel’s fingers tighten around the cloth. “I’ll gut them myself when we find out,” he promises.
“If it wasn’t our Court who did this,” Cybel asks Lugh, “who was it?”
Lugh tilts his head, looking at the slaughter around the maypole and says casually, “Sluagh. There’s no sign of magickal attack. No broken weapons or armor left behind.” His smile is sharp. “You know how wasteful the Courts are in battle. No one in the Wylds has access to military surplus.”
“That’s supposition,” Cybel points out. “Aage will expect proof if you’re accusing his people of trying to start a war.”
“And I have it.” He lifts up his cloak and the bundle he’d wrapped so carefully unfurls. A cleaver falls to the ground.
Armel and Cybel instinctively jerk away from the iron weapon. Lugh doesn’t seem perturbed to have dropped it near his own feet, despite the risk it poses him. I jump from Dubh’s back. The movement gets Lugh to glance at me. Normally I’d pick the weapon up and store it away for him. Normally I wouldn’t call him on the risks of iron poisoning while we had an audience. But nothing about this strange quest has been normal. He clearly doesn’t expect me to put both hands against his chest and push him away from the Sluagh blade as hard as I can. He staggers back a few feet, narrowly avoiding falling on his ass in the mud. The look he gives me is so wounded, I’d apologize if I weren’t past my limits of patience already.
“What are you doing?” I snarl at him. “You said all was well.”
“And it was! I found this beneath the roses and knew it was the proof we needed.”
“It’s iron, Lugh!”
“You think I don’t know that? I was careful.”
“It could have fucking killed you!” This accusation grows harsher, angrier, and bleeds into a growl. I can’t understand how he could do this to me. Over and over, he puts himself in danger and never stops to think what would happen if he left me behind.
The horses stomp at the ground and I think Cybel’s saying something, but I ignore him.
Lugh steps back and raises his hands in contrition. “Keir, they wanted me to find it. They led me here—”
My simmering frustration ignites with his attempted excuse. “Dammit, Lugh, that makes it worse! Now you obey them without thinking for yourself first? If you’d thought about it, you’d have remembered our agreement. You remember it, right?”
“Keir, how could I—”
“When we were boys, we agreed that if we were going to do this, if we were going to roam the Wylds and put you in such danger, I would be the only one to handle any iron. You promised me that!” He’s silent, eyes downcast, shoulders curving in as if every word I throw at him is a blow. “Why didn’t you tell them no? Why didn’t you ask me to help you? You never—”
Never think how I would break if you were taken from me.
I swallow those words down. They’re honest, but they bare my worst fear, expose my most dangerous secret, and I’ll be damned before I admit it aloud. My skin itches and prickles when I hold it in, and words fail because there’s no way I can explain why this hurts so much. I can’t properly express why him risking his own safety is such an ugly, raw betrayal.
“Keiran.”
I blink through stinging moisture I didn’t realize had obscured my vision and find Cybel before me. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen when he offers me a sad smile. He waits for me to focus on him, then lightly shakes me by the shoulders. “Move your hand, lad.”
I glance down and choke with horror and regret when I find my fingers a breath away from brushing over my berserkir belt. I almost let it take me, the same way Lugh let the shades take him. “I didn’t mean... I don’t want to...”
“I know,” Cybel says. He clasps my trembling hand in his and squeezes, lifting it so it’s out of reach of the belt. “I understand.” He tips his head to Armel and Drest—when did Drest ride down here, and why is he gripping his bow like that?—and continues to hold my hand away while my trembling slows. “We all understand.”
“Yes, all’s well with us,” Armel promises. Drest doesn’t loosen his grip on the bow, but he nods in agreement. Then his gaze flicks to the side and I follow the movement without a second thought.
Lugh stands there, staring like he’s never seen me before, and I wonder if he finally understands what his mother’s gift means now that it was nearly turned on him. I don’t speak to him. I grab the cleaver from the ground.
It’s not a weapon of war. This is a butcher’s tool. The wooden handle’s worn from overuse, the blade curved unnaturally from excessive honing. No Seelie could have wielded this. Lugh was right. The Sluagh are behind this attack, though I refuse to believe they are acting with Aage’s support. The man I know, the man I fought beside, would never risk Queen Mab’s wrath. He would never send his people into a battle so woefully unprepared, armed with tools of their trade alone. Someone else must be moving in these lands, someone who dares to challenge King Oberon himself. And if Aage is unaware of what’s happening, Lugh’s determination makes sense. If Aage falls, the Sluagh will fall, and Lugh will tumble down with them as his position is lost.
This new perspective doesn’t offer much comfort, though it does help me understand Lugh’s focus on finding such proof. The blade’s weight is unnatural in my hand. There’s no balance, no symmetry to its shape, and I’m sure Aage will instantly recognize the piece for what it is—a workingman’s tool turned to warfare. With this, we could sway the thegn to our side. This may be enough to convince him to join us in battle in exchange for help against the internal threat. If it fails, I fear what else Lugh would risk to secure the Sluagh forces.
Cybel remains silent as I pack the blade away in my saddlebags. He’s silent as I mount Dubh, and he’s still silent when we begin a slow walk back toward the road. Lugh and the others can follow us if they wish. The day’s travel is already off. Finding a campsite away from this destroyed place is the wisest course. The quiet helps more than any platitudes. Slowly, carefully, I begin to piece myself back together. Even with my emotions under better control, the belt still hums to me, promising an escape from all of this for a little while. Gods, the temptation to transform is so strong. I cling to the reins and wrap them around my hands and fingers, ordering myself to not touch the belt.
It’s a battle I’m not positive I’ll win. “Would you take it from me?” I ask Cybel quietly.
No judgment in his eyes. No disgust for my weakness twisting his mouth. He simply returns my question with another. “Do you really want me to?” When I don’t answer, he adds, “We’ve still a few hours’ ride ahead of us.”
&nb
sp; It’s a valid point. If we run into the Sluagh forces who slaughtered this village, I may need it. I shake my head and Cybel nods. “Good lad.”
I put my heels to Dubh and ride, Cybel keeping pace beside me. The trees flash by and I pray to the gods I can leave it all—the murdered Seelie, the village, Lugh’s single-mindedness—behind me. But I doubt they’re listening.
Chapter Twelve
Keiran
Lugh gives me space. The first day, I’m appreciative for it. I need time to sort through the overwhelming tide of emotions that nearly drowned me in the destroyed village. The men seem to understand that the distance is mutually accepted, and say nothing. The next day, Lugh tries to talk to me, but I rebuff him, still frustrated by his actions and my own response. Hurt, he withdraws to his own company. The Hunt remain quiet and observant. By the third day, I’ve come to the realization that most of my anger shouldn’t have been directed at Lugh. Too bad I don’t know how to share that with him, especially since my attempts to coax him into stilted conversation die horrible, painful deaths thanks to his monosyllabic responses and sudden need to go hunting for our dinner. This time, Cybel and Armel exchange exasperated looks, and even Drest clucks his tongue at our behavior.
Our silent battle of wills stretches on through the awkward meal. Neither of us can summon the courage for a confrontation, though we shoot enough awkward glances at each other that they become their own form of conversation. We’ve been together too long to handle this separation well.
Maybe that’s why I’m not completely surprised when I wake up to discover the men have already torn down their part of camp and packed their horses. Drest and Armel are both mounted, while Cybel sits beside the fire, waiting for me or Lugh to rouse ourselves. A quick look to the bundle of furs across the fire from me confirms Lugh’s still sleeping, so I sit up and wait for Cybel’s speech with grim acceptance.