by Ryan Graudin
The Faery light does its job. I feel the Kelpie hesitate. The Thames presses down on my shoulders and lungs. Its water becomes searing. Electric. The Kelpie’s spell sings and weaves through the currents, seeking me out.
I’m trying to fight it, trying to break away from the predator. But my gown is so heavy and the Kelpie’s magic is everywhere. In my ears and nose and pores, begging me to unravel. To give it all up to the water’s deep.
I don’t have the magic to fight back. Some dim, clawing thought bubbles from the back of my mind. Richard was right. I shouldn’t have jumped.
I’m going to die. Not at the hands of a powerful Old One, or lying next to Richard in a hospital, withered with age. I’m going to drown on the back of a disoriented Kelpie. Trapped in the gauze of my own dress.
I’m not what I was before. I’m not strong enough.
And then, hands and arms wrap around my waist, draw me up into clean air. My lungs claw for it, consume it. I’m being dragged out of the river, away from the boat by the time I can even speak.
“The Kelpie! The yacht!” My words wheeze and splutter. They sound pathetic even to me.
“Stay here! I have to go help Lydia!” The hands let go, rest my body on the shore. I turn just in time to see Ferrin, one of the youngling Fae guard, before she disappears into velveteen waters.
Ferrin. Lydia. What are they doing here? Last I heard they were in the Highlands, doing grunt work at Queen Titania’s court.
My body feels weak and crumpled, like the wads of rubbish which string along the Thames. With every breath I feel life flowing back in—how close I was to losing it.
I look back at the rogue Kelpie. Lydia has managed to catch the beast, with some help from Ferrin and another soaked youngling. It must be Helene. After long, thrashing minutes, the trio drags the Kelpie from the muddy currents. Once the creature’s hooves hit dry land it stands no chance against their spells.
All three Fae are breathing hard. Helene even has blood streaming down her left cheek.
“Will someone PLEASE explain this?” I look around the group. Guilt flashes across Lydia’s and Ferrin’s heart-shaped faces. Both of them have their fingers wreathed deep into the water-spirit’s mane, subduing it with wordless spells.
In the end it’s Lydia who speaks first. “It was my fault, Lady Emrys. It’s a good thing you shone that light. I don’t know if we would’ve found it otherwise. It shot off as soon as it caught wind of the river.”
I stare at the youngling and clench my teeth. She’s not the one I’m angry at. Not really. It’s the burn in my lungs and the tremble in my limbs. My mortality. My weakness.
But this doesn’t stop me from yelling.
“Your fault? It shot off?” My throat catches, chokes on some leftover river. “What do you mean? Did you bring the Kelpie here? Into the middle of LONDON? BY A RIVER IN A CITY FULL OF MORTALS? You almost got every single soul on that yacht killed!”
“I was acting on Queen Titania’s orders,” Lydia says.
“Ti-Titania ordered this?” I glance back across the river and see the yacht. I look for Richard, but from this distance all tuxedos look the same. “Why?”
“We were sent to fetch you. Queen Titania ordered us to bring a Kelpie so you could ride back swiftly.”
“Ride back?” Normally when I visit Titania’s Faery court in the Highlands, I take a train to Inverness and then hike into the wilderness, where I’m met with a Kelpie mount. If the new Faery queen is summoning me with such little warning—and creating even greater risk by sending a ferocious spirit into London—something must be very wrong. “What happened?”
Lydia and Ferrin exchange glances. As if they’re uncertain how much they should reveal.
I stare at them, press my thumb hard into my ring. Its swirls of silver filigree dig deep into my finger. A small pain. I try to focus on it instead of what I’m not. It keeps the anger down. Manageable.
Ferrin breaks first under my glare. “One of the Ad-hene sought an audience with Queen Titania today. At her court.”
An Ad-hene at the court? I bristle at the thought. The Ad-hene are the Manx spirits—long-hardened natives of the Isle of Man. In the mortals’ lore they’re spirits too terrible for heaven and too virtuous for hell. In reality they are fierce, brooding creatures who never leave their island. The perfect guards for a Faery queen’s prison.
“Why?”
Lydia answers this time. “The Ad-hene . . . he came to tell us there’s been a breakout. A prisoner has escaped.”
“Escaped.” I echo her word. Try to wrap my mind around it. “That’s not possible.”
A cold fills me. A cold which has nothing to do with my damp skin or the night frost. It’s a freeze sprung from memories. Memories of when Queen Mab ordered me to escort prisoners to the Ad-hene’s prison: a labyrinth of tunnels snaking from the sea cliffs—wide and deep and never-ending under the Isle of Man.
Anyone the Faery queen deemed dangerous or unlikeable was doomed to at least a time in the endless weave of corridors. Assassins, thieves, would-be usurpers. Spirits more powerful than the entire youngling Guard put together. Cursed to centuries of iron bars and darkness.
Thousands of immortal souls. Hundreds of years. And not one of them has ever escaped.
Until now.
“Queen Titania ordered us to escort you to the Isle of Man,” Ferrin finishes. Her fingers tighten into the water-spirit’s mane.
The beast glares at us, eyes slit and bloodshot. It whickers, bares its long, yellowing teeth.
My voice is still weak, sapped dry by anger. “Helene, will you tell King Richard I’ve been called away? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Of course.” Helene nods.
I grip the Kelpie’s mane and heave myself onto its back. Beneath me is all muscle, power, and magic. Ferrin climbs onto the creature’s back as well, the presence of her own magic a steadying ballast in front of me.
The Kelpie isn’t even moving, but already I feel its speed, ready to carry us the entire length of Albion. Faster than any car or train ever could. I look back toward the yacht and wish I could see Richard, tell him good-bye. Tell him I love him.
But the Kelpie is already galloping, leaping across cabs and buildings and buses—a starless patch of motion and dark on the wind—so fast that for just a moment I can close my eyes and pretend I’m flying. The way I once did. In and on the air, leaving London far behind.
Three
We travel all night. First by Kelpie: through cities, fields, and sleepy townscapes ruled by Gothic belltowers. Then by sailboat, its tarp sails billowing full with Ferrin and Lydia’s magic. Their spells cut us swiftly over waves of salt. Double our time.
The sunrise’s glow spreads over the sea by the time we reach the island. Castle ruins crown the coast like slumbering giants. The cliffs beneath them stretch into the sea, misted by bridal-veil waves.
Our boat shudders against the rocks. Remnants of night shadow flicker in my eyes—shaping into the form of a person. I crane my neck, stare up into the jutting crags. The Ad-hene crouched against the stones looks more gargoyle than man. His eyes are a strange combination of fierce and dead—fire and slate—as he watches our boat. Even his hair seems woven from shadows, twisting black around his face. A vicious wind licks the coast, but these curls hang still.
“We’re here on Queen Titania’s orders!” Ferrin calls up to the motionless spirit.
The Ad-hene keeps staring. I begin to wonder if he isn’t a statue after all when his eyes shift to my end of the boat.
“What is this?” His words rain down like kicked gravel. “Mortal?”
I want to shut my eyes, block out his words. But my irises stay locked with the Ad-hene’s. Green meeting gray.
My thumb digs tight against my ring.
“This is Lady Emrys. The one Queen Titania sent for,” the youngling tells him.
The Ad-hene doesn’t look at her, doesn’t break our stare. He hasn’t moved, but something i
n his eyes has shifted, changed. They glimmer, become more sterling than rock. He’s looking more closely—a study which makes every muscle in my body tighten.
“Lady Emrys.” My name rolls off his lips like an ocean wave. “The faagailagh.”
Richard’s ring burrows deep into my skin. I keep staring at the Ad-hene, but the spirit is unreadable. Hard as stone.
He stands slowly, looking less like a gargoyle and more like the warrior saints which stand guard in a cathedral’s stones.
“Foshil!” he commands the rock face in the language of the Ad-hene. I feel the power of his spell from here—all crackle and shiver through the earth. Strong. Hairline cracks appear in the cliff. Stone melts away to reveal the shape of a door. The sheer slope of shale next to our boat becomes crudely carved steps.
The younglings stay in the boat, watching as I gather my ruined evening gown and start to climb.
“Welcome to the Labyrinth of Man, Lady Emrys,” the Ad-hene rumbles when I conquer the final step. “I’m Kieran of the Ad-hene. Follow me. Stay close or the island will swallow you.”
We step out of the dawn, into the yawning tunnels. They stretch on and on, a maze more complicated than a Gaelic knot, twisting and pure black. Every few lengths the Ad-hene halts and glances at his map—a silver, glowing mark which laces the skin of his left arm. Etchings of the Labyrinth’s ever-changing tunnels.
Even in the realm of spirits and magic Ad-hene are strange creatures. Sixteen sullen male spirits who act as one—all sprung into existence from the Isle of Man’s dark, earthy magic. All bear silver scars on their arms, strange pieces of magic which allow them to navigate the prison’s impossible length and depth. Ad-hene are the only way in or out of the Labyrinth of Man. Even the Faery queen needs a silver-armed guard to lead her into the deep.
I begin to think Kieran is leading me in endless circles, when we’re finally spit out into a great cave.
There’s light here. It shines high and silver, like moon rays off water. Stalactites dance in its waves. Queen Titania stands in the center of the room. Mercury hair flows down her back and her long lace gown drips to the floor. She’s as magnificent as she’s always been, but that doesn’t erase the worry under her paper-fine skin.
All around her are Ad-hene. If the queen is the beauty of starlight and air, then the Manx spirits are the earth. Raw, brooding strength. Fifteen of them stand before Queen Titania in a filed queue. Chess pieces waiting to be moved.
“Your Majesty.” I curtsy. At the same time Kieran bows low. Not even this movement stirs his night-spun curls.
“Thank you, Kieran,” the Faery queen says to the bowing spirit before she catches sight of my ruined dress. “Forgive me for summoning you on such short terms, Lady Emrys, but I’m afraid it was necessary.”
Her sharp chin turns back to the row of Ad-hene. “Alistair, show Lady Emrys what you showed me.”
One of the spirits steps forward. His hair, white as shock, sheathes his brow, nearly covering his beetle-black eyes. His face—like Titania’s—is both young and not.
He is the group’s leader. I glean this and much more from his aura as he draws closer. Age . . . old, old age. This is what Alistair is. Older than sea cliffs and dust. Older than the cavern itself.
He doesn’t smile. His words are flat, almost bored. “Shall we?”
We follow Alistair into yet another tunnel. All around our footsteps echo: hollow and empty. The walls change. They’re no longer solid stretches of earth, but pocked with cells. The scar on Alistair’s arm blazes white into their emptiness.
“Yesterday morning we came to check this wing. The Corridor of the Forgotten,” Alistair speaks slowly, as if he’s about to nod off to sleep. “We found the empty cell and sent a messenger to Queen Titania immediately.”
The Ad-hene’s steps fade, come to a stop. He lets out a great heave of weary breath and points. I follow his stare into the vacant cell. Its bars are warped—their iron dripping like spent wax candles. The shallow rock walls behind it are covered in scrawling runic symbols. A language so long out of use I’ve forgotten how to read it.
Whoever languished in this cell was just as old. And powerful. The aftertaste of their aura buzzes the air: bitter and burning, filled with rage. Unlike any magic I’ve felt before. Not the black pepper bite of the Ad-henes’ surly spells. Or the tingling glow of a Frithemaeg’s magic. It’s a strange mix: rust and gleam. Old and new. It washes through me, like déjà vu, just out of reach. Leaves me dizzy and grasping.
I try to ignore the pit in my stomach and move close to the bars. The runes stare back: scrabbled, frantic, and white. “Who was kept here?”
“We were hoping you might know,” Titania answers. “You’re one of the few Mab trusted with prisoner transport.”
“That was ages ago . . .” My memory, just like my gracefulness, is one of the things that’s fallen victim to my newfound mortality. Ever since I latched hands with Herne, since that power was taken from me, the vastness of my past has been melting. “Most of my transports were minor infractions. Frithemaeg who committed treason. Soul feeders who went on killing sprees big enough for the mortals to notice. Never a prisoner locked away so long. Certainly none with magic like this . . .”
“It is unique,” the Faery queen says.
“And the Ad-hene don’t know who it was?” I ask this question carefully, dance around my growing panic.
“This is the Corridor of the Forgotten,” Alistair sighs out his answer. “Queen Mab’s most dangerous prisoners were sent to this wing: nameless, left to rot. She even placed her own warding spells on it, as an extra assurance none would escape. Those spells died with her. Queen Mab preferred to . . .” Alistair’s voice coasts, searching for the right word. “. . . have a more direct control over this place.”
“Mab was unmade months ago,” I say. “That can’t be the reason this prisoner escaped.”
“I don’t claim it was,” Alistair says, “but things have been changing in the Labyrinth. Things even we Ad-hene do not completely understand. There are shiftings in the earth. Old powers waking.”
Old powers. To hear a spirit as aged as Alistair say this is something indeed. I find myself wondering if there was even an island here when he first took form.
“Yes. I know the old powers are rising. I feel it in my very core. It’s the same everywhere. Since last week. The first Lights-down,” Titania says. The Faery queen’s jaw is grim and jutting as she turns to the Ad-hene. “But you must understand my suspicion, Alistair. The Ad-hene have been the only way out of these tunnels for millennia. I cannot overlook this fact.”
“And we have served the Faery queen for just as long.” For the first time Alistair looks awake: eyes sharp, lips pinched. The mark on his arm flares extra bright, writhing like a knot of silver snakes. “The Ad-hene are loyal, Your Majesty. Prisoners only leave the island if the Faery queen lets them.”
I stare back into the cell’s emptiness and try not to be sick. A creature Mab deemed dangerous enough to lock up for eternity, a creature powerful enough to solve the Labyrinth’s maze, is now free.
It is free and it is angry.
“What about the other prisoners?” I’m grasping at straws. “Have you asked them?”
“There are no other prisoners in this wing.” Alistair hesitates. “Except . . .”
“All secrets sound the same in the dark.” The voice that says this is small, fragile. I follow it, find myself staring into another cell. There’s no writing on these walls. Just empty, blank space.
And then something moves.
What I thought was a boulder jutting out of the floor is nothing but. Gray rags and hair break apart, revealing a face which looks more like a mask of bone than a human profile. Its eyes are sunken, filmed with eerie, sightless white. The hair on its head is stringy, impossibly scant but long. And the skin . . . it’s ruined and spotted, like a plate of raw liver.
Those eyes—the ones I was so sure could not see—snap onto us. Mo
re words leave the withered lips, all rasp and shriek.
“Come to gape at the four winds meet? Fools, puppets, knights, kings. All of them sacrificed. No matter. They die with smiles on their faces.”
The sentences and syllables make no sense. They’re gibberish. But that doesn’t stop every molecule in my body from burning. Every atom inside me is alert. Agitated.
“What—who is that?” I tear my eyes from the ruined creature, back to where Alistair and Queen Titania stand in their magnificence.
The voice doesn’t stop. Words keep spilling out. “I will show you ruin. Kingdom’s fall.”
“She’s a faagailagh.” The answer comes from behind me, where Kieran is standing just inches away. “She too sacrificed her powers to be with a king.”
The woman rises. The stick remnants of her body are swallowed by her dress. Bare, gnarled feet shuffle her all the way to the bars.
“Two sides to the coin. Three sides to love. I flipped wrong and the world burned. Cinder and ash. No more. Even sisters fail us in the end.”
It’s not possible. I find myself shaking my head. Taking a step back from the bars—away from the milk-white eyes. My spine curves into Kieran’s chest. The Ad-hene doesn’t move.
“This is Lady Guinevere,” he says.
Guinevere. The Faery who married King Arthur. Who gave up her immortality to be with the human king. Who broke Arthur’s heart and his kingdom when she ran away with Lancelot. Who died a long, long time ago.
Or so I thought.
“She can’t be . . .” I step away from the spirit.
The face behind the bars grins. The smile is twisted; the few teeth it holds are rotten, weathered nubs of gravestones. “Wrong. I flipped wrong. Sisters fail us. Poison in our veins.”
I try to remember Guinevere. What she was before Arthur. Before Camelot’s terrible fall at the hand of the sorcerer Mordred. She was classic in her beauty: hair spun of gold, plaited all the way to her heels. Eyes as blue as the clearest day. A delicate snub nose.