by Ryan Graudin
Now. Tell him now. I realize I’m not afraid. Somewhere in these long weeks of emotions, I faced my sea serpent and jumped. I love Richard even more than I fear death. More than I fear losing my magic, my self. Because my magic isn’t my self anymore.
It’s not panic but a peace, released in my chest. This is it. The moment between moments—the time for me to give myself to him.
“Richard?”
He looks down, eyes full.
“There’s something I want to tell you.”
A question flutters behind the twitch of his mouth, but he waits, silent.
Another breath reins in the rapid gallop of my heart. I look. Really look at him. The night falling outside shines in his eyes. I see myself there, haloed by hazel and dusk.
“I love you.”
Richard smiles, cups my face with his free hand, and brings our lips together. I feel his fingers move, sliding through my hair’s copper depths as his kiss strengthens. I pull him close. My arms wreathe around his neck, anchor us together. The moment is enveloping. I want to stay in it.
A great sigh fills Richard when we fall away.
“I think—I think I’ve made my choice.”
He stiffens. His eyes grow wider, letting in more of the dark.
“But,” I continue, “before I do anything, I need to know that this is going to last. Is this forever?”
“I can’t,” he says.
All of the sudden I feel like an ax-bitten tree—hacked, hacked, and hacked until I fall dead against the ground. Rotting and devastated.
“I can’t ask you to give everything up. Your magic. Your life . . .” He shakes his head. Relief washes over me, sinks in like raindrops meeting parched soil. “I can’t—I won’t be the reason you die.”
I blink, try to recover from the awfulness of his pause. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Yes, Embers. You are my yes. You’re the one I’ll love until the day I die.” Every word is sure, a stone mortared into place. They block up, brick by brick, filling me. And I know that, as long as I have him, my soul will feel whole. “But that doesn’t mean you have to die too.”
I rest my head against his chest and memorize the pulsing beat of his heart, how it murmurs its unsung ballad into my ear. He strokes my hair, his fingers threading through the long, smooth strands. But his fingers don’t stop there. They continue down my back to the curving base of my spine.
“I can’t keep living like this, Richard.” I think about everywhere I’ve been, everywhere I’m going. “The sickness . . . being apart from you . . .”
“But your magic. Your future.” Concern for me aches through his chest.
“That was my past. That world is falling apart,” I tell him. “It’s my choice. But I don’t think it’s going to matter. The way things are going . . .”
“We’ll get through this. You’ll see,” he promises.
“I hope you’re right.” I look back out the window, at the milky white length of the Long Walk stretching far into velveteen darkness. “Let’s go.”
When we reach the line of thick, tangling trees I almost turn back. Leafy spirits stare through the darkness; their eyes rake over us, full of unwelcome. Richard walks forward with blithe, agile steps, unaware of the forest’s hostile inhabitants.
“It’s better if you stay behind me.” My voice fills the empty spaces between the trees and I fall silent, feeling as though I’ve breached something sacred.
Richard wheels around, backtracks to the patch of earth behind me. “Is he close?”
I pause. Herne’s presence is everywhere. It’s impossible to tell how close or far he is in a place like this. His magic soaks the soil, rolls in the air. It’s only when I see him with my own eyes that I’ll know for sure where he is.
“I don’t know. But he knows we’re here.” The Dryads’ whispers travel fast. I’m sure they’ve reached his part of the woods by now. “He should come.” Out of blatant irritation or curiosity if nothing else.
We’re stopped by the base of a sprawling, many-limbed oak. It stretches over us like a squid, its reach tangled and endless. “I think we should wait here.”
Richard starts to lean against the worn, grooved trunk.
“Don’t touch anything.” I reach out and stop him. “Herne’s very protective of his trees.”
Richard grunts but stands straight again.
We don’t wait long. The low thunder of Herne’s horse rises into the air. The thick hedge of trees leans aside to let the commanding rider through. In the darkness, all I can see of Herne are his coal-glow eyes. They burn through the evening—twisted, throbbing stars.
“I’ve already answered your request. What more do you want of me, young woodling?”
“King Richard wishes to speak with you.” As I say this, Richard stiffens and looks into the same empty spot of trees. “Will you show yourself to him?”
The request catches Herne off guard. His piercing eyes roll from me over to Richard. Their orange depths flicker, as if seeing the mortal for the first time. “The king? What words does he have for me?”
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “You’ll have to speak with him yourself.”
For a terrible moment, I think Herne will turn away, but the Lord of the Wood is too curious. He stares at Richard, studying every facet of the mortal’s face. Something about the king seems to satisfy him.
Beside me, Richard jumps, focusing on the patch of darkness as it shapes into the horse and its fearsome rider. Richard’s fingers twitch, but his expression is set, unmoved by the rider’s spiral horns and furnace eyes.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, making a tiny half bow.
All of the muscles in my body grow tight. Was this a mistake? I thought that bringing Richard here couldn’t have done any more harm than good. Maybe I was wrong. The slightest insult could send Herne over the edge.
Windsor’s spirit returns the bow, bending close to the towering neck of his horse. I feel like I can breathe again.
“What is it you want, O king?” Herne’s voice booms a strange mix of disregard and respect. Despite all of his earlier statements, it seems Herne still holds the mortals’ crown in special consideration.
“I’ve come to ask you to reconsider your decision,” Richard says.
“Is that so?” Herne grunts. “Well, I’m sure your Frithemaeg has told you of my reasons. What have you to offer instead?”
Richard begins to pace. Dead leaves kick up under his feet as he walks the same line, as though he’s patrolling a courtroom. “Is the destruction of England’s humanity really the answer to your problem? For years, the mortal and immortal have existed, side by side—but then your kind chose to plunge us into ignorance. Faeries and other spirits vanished. They forced humans to push them into the realm of myths and legends. And now you’re angry for what we’ve created instead. We can’t know that we’ve damaged magic if we aren’t even aware of its existence.”
Herne moves. I almost throw myself in front of Richard, but there’s no need. The old spirit is only dismounting his horse.
“Go on,” he says.
Richard doesn’t flinch as the towering being draws closer. Even off his steed, Herne is nearly as tall and solid as the trunk of the nearby oak.
“Since I’ve met Emrys, I’ve begun to understand that spirits and humans weren’t meant to live apart. We’re supposed to work together, side by side. That’s what made Pendragon’s kingdom so legendary. That’s what brought England to its golden age. We can have that again. We can create a new alliance.” Richard pounds his fist into his hand to emphasize his point.
“And how would this benefit me?” Herne interrupts. “This is all well and good, but how is it not easier just to let you be killed?”
My heart drops, like a starling struck dead in the sky. Herne—like so many other spirits—is truly a neutral force, indifferent to the lives and deaths of all around him.
Richard jumps into his argument without ski
pping a beat. “Even if the Old One takes my crown, the mortals will put up a fight. There’ll be chaos, pandemonium. People will run into the woods to hide. I’m sure many trees would get destroyed in the process. If we face the Old One together we can avoid that destruction.”
Herne is frozen, almost impossible to pick apart from the sentinel-still trunks of the woods. Richard has found the spirit’s one weak spot: his love for his forest.
The king goes on, “I promise you that once the alliance between mortals and spirits is cemented, I’ll focus on rebuilding the forests. Your forest will be wild—and I mean truly wild—again. You have my word.”
“And what assurance do I have that you’ll keep this word of yours?” Herne growls after a moment’s hesitation.
“It’s my life.” Richard spreads out his hands in surrender.
My heart beats faster, like a rabbit startled into flight. For the first time in days, a real tangible hope sits in front of me. Herne hasn’t said no or ridden off into the bushes. He simply stands there.
“You.” His eyes flick back to me, burn twin holes into my gut. “What does your queen have to say about all of this?”
“I—I don’t know,” I manage. “We’ve lost all communication with Mab’s court. We believe it’s been compromised.”
“Treason? Mab’s grip got too tight, did it? Or maybe it wasn’t tight enough,” the woodlord adds grimly.
I bite my tongue and wonder if I should resort to begging. But Richard speaks again before I can open my mouth.
“So that’s your choice. You can help us establish a kingdom of mortals and spirits and allow your woods to prosper. Or you can stand back and let anarchy destroy what little wilderness you have left.” He faces the forest spirit, arms crossed. Gone is the young man who refused to face his future. Somewhere, in the past few days, a monarch has risen from the ashes of his fear.
Richard is a king now.
The lofty air has vanished from Herne’s aura—replaced by a keen sense of wariness. He’s studying Richard. His glowing eyes scour the king’s face.
An owl’s call breaks the silence, low and lonely. None of us move.
“I like you,” Herne says finally. “You have backbone. But I need more than your word that my trees will survive.”
He’s talking about his price. A spirit with no loyalties must be bought.
“My magic.” My offer spills out before Richard substitutes something dangerous or equally irretrievable. “If we survive the battle, you can have my magic.”
All of Herne’s energies focus in on me, digging a shudder out of my body. The spirit glides forward, horns twisting so far above me they seem to spear the light of the stars.
“You are the Lady Emrys, are you not?” he rumbles. “Mab holds you in high esteem. She says you’re gifted for one so young. . . . Your power isn’t something to be given lightly. Tell me, why would you sacrifice it?”
“It—” I glance over at where Richard stands, straight and rigid like a toy soldier. “It doesn’t matter. It’s my choice.”
“For him?” Herne’s voice rises with surprise.
“But only after the battle,” I tell him again when he takes another step forward. “I have to be able to defend myself.” And Richard.
“Certainly. If only I might have your word.” The spirit extends a dark-gloved hand.
I take a deep breath, knowing what will happen when I lock fingers with him. There will be no going back. No second chances. But the choice was already made, long before this moment. My hand stretches out, out.
“Emrys, no.” Richard steps in front of me. My fingers crumple against the center of his chest. “We’ll find something else. There has to be another way.”
I shake my head. His heart slams hard; I feel every beat beneath my nails.
“It’s okay, Richard.” I swallow and try not to think of everything I’m about to give up. I focus on what’s in front of me. What I’m touching. “Death . . . it doesn’t matter. Because being with you is worth all of that.”
“Are you sure?” Richard’s hands reach around mine, hold me to him. I look at him and wonder how he can doubt, how he doesn’t know that he’s worth all of this.
“Yes, Richard.” I smile and repeat those words he offered only minutes before. “You are my yes.”
Richard still holds my hand, looks at its nails and creases like they’re some sort of treasure. After a long, lingering moment he steps aside and lets go.
There’s a sound like the cracking of thunder, Herne clearing his throat. “Does your offer still stand, Lady Emrys?”
“It does,” I tell him, and step forward.
My hand slides into Herne’s and I feel the magic beginning to work. It fuses us together, weaving the words of my mouth into an unbreakable contract, cementing and binding them. My future is sealed now. Either way the battle turns, I’ll meet death.
“You have my sword then,” Herne says once he releases me. Even though our hands fall apart, I still feel the harsh tug of my promise to him. “When do you expect the Old One to arrive?”
“The ravens said it would be at the full moon,” I tell him.
“Four days.” The spirit glides back to his horse. “Barely enough time to get the Hunt together.”
So he’s gathering the Hunt. The idea should reassure me, but all I feel is a nervous rumbling in my innards.
“I’m going to round up my followers.” Herne mounts his horse and it whinnies, haunches rippling and ready. “When I return, we will meet to decide battle tactics.”
With that he’s off, the earthy rumble of hooves ruling the night air. I stand still, eyeing the broken underbrush the darker-than-night animal just plowed through.
“So it’s done.” Richard stares too, eyes wide, at the empty space the woodlord left.
“It’s done.” I nod, watching as the woods creep back to reclaim the path Herne carved. The gaping darkness soon fills with bark and leaves. “He agreed. How did you know what to say to him?”
“I was improvising.” Richard’s lips turn sheepish with a grin. “Reading him. You have to do that a lot when you’re dealing with politicians. Dad taught me how to do it.”
“Well, it worked. And Herne really does seem to admire you.”
Wind breaks through the stillness of the trees. Moonlight leaks and swells through cracks in their branches.
“Emrys?”
I look over. His face is so sharp, so beautiful under the moon. It’s almost Fae-like.
“Thank you.” He wraps his arm around me, drawing me close.
Few words can contain what it feels like, his shoulder curling over mine. Full, complete. No more hole. No more gaping.
And I know, no matter how many days I have left, that my choice was the right one.
Thirty
The mortals are on edge, though none of them know exactly why. Arguments break out, exploding through archaic, tapestry-cloaked rooms like artillery shells. One leaves a duchess’s daughter in tears. Of all the inhabitants of Windsor Castle, both visible and unseen, only Richard seems completely unaffected.
“You’re not nervous at all?” I whisper to him during a particularly raucous family dinner. It’s the first night of the full moon. I feel the battle rolling closer, cracking like thunder on the edges of my mind.
“Why should I be?”
“We should tell Anabelle. Maybe even the others. It would be better that way. Some of them might even be able to help,” I mutter.
“Tell me what?” Apparently the princess has the hearing abilities of a wolf. She leans in from Richard’s opposite side, eyes fiery with curiosity.
“Nothing we can talk about at the dinner table,” Richard shoots back.
A thin, dramatic gasp escapes Anabelle’s lips. “She’s not pregnant, is she? Ooh, Mum will have a fit when she gets here.”
Richard reaches over for his sister’s half-filled wineglass. “No, Emrys isn’t pregnant. But I think you’ve had a bit too much Riesling.”
There, on the floor, in a state of filth and rags, is Duchess Titania. Her bun is undone, silver hair spilling across the floor like a river of mercury. Her face is dark, from dirt or deep, sinister bruises. I’m too far away to tell which. I start to run to the weakened Fae’s side, but Richard’s hand closes firmly around my wrist.
“Don’t worry, Emrys. The butler will get the door.”
I blink. None of them can see the woman crumpled against the crimson carpet. Nor can they feel the mass exodus of Fae flooding to her side. All they see is me, clutching the thin gold frame of my chair, my face painted with horror.
So many Frithemaeg cluster around Titania’s limp form that I can’t even see the duchess anymore. I look back down at Richard. The tightness in his lips tells me he senses what’s really going on. He’s trying his best to maintain the mortals’ façade.
“I need to go to the toilet.” I pry my arm from his fingers and walk slowly, deliberately, past the frantic Fae. As soon as I round the doors, I make the necessary adjustments to the veiling spell.
Titania is sitting up by the time I return. She’s in a bad state, eyes barely open and chest buckled as she slouches against a shell-shocked youngling. When I kneel in front of her, she begins coughing. Flecks of blood fall wet on the carpet, blending perfectly into its red fibers. Everything around us, the metal and machines, is eating her from the inside.
“We need to get her into the woods,” I say, and wipe a large speck of her blood off of my arm. “I’m sure some of it’s the sickness.”
Breena points to two stunned Fae. “You, grab her arms and legs. Lady Emrys is right. We need to get her closer to the trees.”
“No!” Titania jolts to life. Her fingertips sink like claws into the hems of my skirts, dragging me closer. “There’s no time!
“She’s coming.” The duchess gasps and begins coughing again. The rattle in her lungs brings up more awful, clumped blood. Her lips are the worst shade of red. “For the castle. There’s no time.”