The air tightened with the alarm of a startled deer. He could almost hear the swiftening of her heartbeat. Then she muttered, “I am a changeling child.” And it was no lie.
The huntress was out of sight down the mountain before the King of the Seelie Court arrived upon the porch of Idris’s house. Any king’s arrival is grand, but the king of the Fair Folk could arrive like no other, coming as he did from thin air in a blaze of golden halos that melted the snow about his feet and raised green grass and flowers in spontaneous spring.
True, Idris could not see the glory, but he could hear it and he could smell it and above all he could feel the warmth spreading across his skin. In another moment, his father had him in his arms, one hand against his back, the other cradling his head. Idris melted into the embrace as if he were snow itself, for so rarely now did he have contact with anyone.
“What is this I hear of a trespasser?” the king demanded.
“It isn’t as bad as Chief may have implied. I am allowing a mortal huntress to remain here while she hunts Dohmnal.”
“She pushed him off a cliff, Sire!” Orn declared.
“We got too near a colith pit and lost balance. I fell on my own.”
“He couldn’t breathe, Sire, fainted dead away!”
“Merely stunned by the fall.”
The Seelie King listened, his eyes narrowing as he heard the goblin’s complaints and his son’s retorts and when he held up his hand, everyone silenced.
“Idris and I shall discuss this alone.”
Nodding, the goblins rumbled off, grunting amongst each other.
When they were alone, the king looked back upon his son. “Why have you permitted her presence? If you were in want of company, why did you not send word? I would have sent someone to you or you could…” his voice faltered. “…come back.”
Sometimes there are bonds so deep that words may be spoken silently, felt rather through the heart. Idris could not reply, but he turned away, half hiding his covered face with his mangled hand. His father did not need to hear again to know how difficult the prince found the pity of his people. How he wished to be accepted as he was and not doted upon like a helpless child. That even without sight, he could feel each and every sorry stare that saw his state and thought back to what he had been before. Truly, the court meant no insult by it. But the reverence and respect they once had for their future king was now merely a sorrowful shadow to a thwarted prophecy.
“She does not know who I was and what I am now,” Idris whispered. “And she doesn’t care. She is here for her hunt.”
The king steepled his fingers at his chest, glancing about with far-seeing eyes. “Where is she now?”
“Hunting. I think she was afraid of you.”
“But not of you,” he mused.
“No,” Idris said, rather surprised as if he found the idea of anyone being afraid of him to be ludicrous.
“Is she familiar then with faeries?”
“She is a changeling.”
“A changeling! Not of our people, I should think. Learn more of this. And if you still feel safe in her company, I shall trust your judgment for now. But do not hesitate to inform the Loresmen or me if you have reason for suspicion.”
Warmth as bright as a summer sun flared inside Idris’s heart. He was not sure how he could express his full gratitude for such trust and confidence, but he squeezed his father’s arm with all the strength possessed in his true fingers.
The mortal huntress hurled down the mountain as if wolves snapped at her heels, sliding on snow and leaping from rock to rock until she came down to the tree line where the old forest waited. The shadows among the thick evergreen branches were as deep and dark as the lochs further into the country, and she shivered to enter a forest again. The wood was nothing more than a thick and tangled cage in her mind, full of hiding places for gnarled hands and glittering eyes.
When she slowed to a stop and the rocks had ceased skittering in her descent, there was no sound but a distant moaning wind and the pant of her own breath.
“Lost, child?” Crusty narrow fingers circled her wrist, biting in with nails.
She did not cry out; she did not attack. No, she already knew who it was even though they spoke with a voice she’d never heard. Still, even knowing the truth could not keep her from a shudder of revulsion as she stared down into the face of a withered hag peering up at her. Whether the old woman had been there all along or only just appeared could not be certain, but there the creature stood, shrouded in thick torn black robes. A more perfect picture of a hag could not be found, not with such a great hooked nose or red-shot, heavy-lidded eyes or twisting long-nailed fingers. Perhaps the perfection itself was the first hint to its lie.
“Master Adoh,” Keeva began, but the frail hand jerked her off her balance with vicious force.
“Quiet, girl!” the hag snarled. “Do not speak my name aloud near the enemy. Even with this disguise I am far too exposed to be this near. I would not have come at all had I known the Seelie King was present. What did you do to provoke him? Did the first key unlock?”
Why else would he be here. But she didn’t say it aloud. She never dared speak her mind aloud to this fey being, and too often she regretted even thinking in his presence for she wondered if he might read minds.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it’s done.”
The hag, or rather the Unseelie King, let out a low cackle, no less terrible for its softness. “Loss of breath, prick on brow, poison apple, death come now,” he chanted under his breath. Reaching into a purse bound to his belt, he withdrew a small item wrapped in enchanted cloth. Though the strength of the spell was clearly woven throughout the fabric, Adoh trembled to hold the object and thrust it into her hands with haste.
Keeva unwrapped it just enough to see the iron teeth of a comb, and then she tucked it into a pocket of her coat. “Am I to comb the prince’s hair then?” she said, raising a brow. “You do know he covers his entire head? I am not exactly in his favor at this moment either.”
“You will do what you must, whatever it takes,” Adoh growled, and for a moment he was not the crippled old crone.
She shuddered, something within her crawling into the shadows to hide. It was always this way, ever since she was a child. There was no use in defying the king’s will. He was her master in all ways, and if she could not accept that, she would perish. Unbidden, the memory of her first kill flitted through her mind. A white fawn with large soft ears and even softer dark eyes. But Keeva was to be his huntress, even then as a child, and one could not pause to consider the beauty of the creature they were about to slay. It was not a matter of choice in kindness or cruelty—it was simply survival.
6
Dining with goblins proved to be a bizarre affair.
To be sure, Keeva had seen much worse at the Unseelie Court, where appetites strayed to the grotesque, but she had never seen a meal so strange as the colorful gems that filled the goblin’s bowls. They ground the rock between their solid jaws with terrifying ease and loud crunching. She couldn’t help but think, as she watched in fascinated horror, that each one of these gems were worth a fortune among the human kingdoms, aye, even among some of the faerie folk!
As for her, her dinner consisted of a roasted fowl and a chalice of cream. She couldn’t help but notice that Fingall had joined them without any meal of his own. “Surely you will eat?” she said, cocking a brow.
The goblins paused in their chewing and all gave her deathly scowls.
Fingall adjusted his head-covering with a nervous twitch and shook his head. “I would be more pleasant company for conversation. I will eat later this evening.”
Conversation, hmm. If there had been any conversation, she had not been welcome. So with a shrug, she turned back to picking the meat off the delicate bird bones, and the rest of the meal passed in awkward silence.
When at last the supper was over, the goblins lumbered away, and Fingall offered his hand to Keeva. “Shall I show you ar
ound my castle? There is more to it than you might guess.”
She had enough grace of mind to wipe her hands clean on a towel before accepting his hand, but when she stood, she said, “Perhaps in the morning? I feel in need of rest.”
“Oh. Of course.”
Trying to ignore the disappointment in his tone, she headed back for her room. There she would have to wait for a few hours until she was sure her host had also gone to sleep. Hopefully, he was not a night owl. So she sat at the edge of her bed, and checked her arrows, her bow, sharpened her blades, and finally touched the iron comb tucked within her belt.
It was going to be a long wait.
After what seemed like an eternity, she crept from her room and groped down the halls in search of Fingall’s chamber. In retrospect, she thought she should have accepted his invitation of exploring this place after all, but the pretense of being his innocent guest was too sickening to bear.
The caves proved not to be entirely dark. Every now and then a blue light would pulsate along the stone walls. Some kind of insect or plant, she supposed. She’d seen plenty of nocturnal creatures with such lights before.
Eventually, she found his room, and a dozen of those blue lights flickered within. If they were at all sentient, it was no surprise that they’d gathered here with the faerie prince, and she felt a stab of pity that he could not see their beauty.
She crept close, heart pounding so loudly in her ears that she feared it might give her away.
Luck was on her side. He did not sleep with those head-coverings. His head lay facing away and pale long hair spread out in a fan upon the pillow. Unsheathing the comb from her sleeve, she stole to his side and bent over, the iron teeth poised to strike. But this needed to be done delicately….it wasn’t the final blow; she could not be caught yet.
With a final held breath, she reached out and touched his hair. No daylight was needed to recognize the color as richly golden as summer wheat. She could feel the warmth spreading across her fingers, melting the strain from tired muscles. The sensation was unlike anything she’d ever known…certainly not among the Unseelie whom she had never shared much touch with other than a few yanks and blows. Nothing like this coursing, living power.
She ran her fingers through one more time to be certain he would not wake, and then the comb descended. Ever so softly it caught the locks, and she pushed down on the outer edge so that it nicked into the skin. A single drop of blood appeared and she withdrew the comb with a shaking sigh.
Fingall’s hand shot up and seized her wrist.
“How dare you,” he said.
Terror gagged her throat, and she struggled for freedom, but his grip proved shockingly strong. She never would have guessed that much power could be contained in two circling fingers, but no matter how she wrenched, they would not break hold. So she stopped, tucking the comb into the back of her belt with one quick sweep. Her eyes sought any gleam of his, but there was none. She knew he was blind, but she’d expected to see something staring back at her. In this dark, all she could see was a formless face haloed by that pale hair.
“I—I—”
“So?” The snarl of his tone made his voice almost unrecognizable. “Trying to see how hideous I am?”
“I—”
“Get out.” He firmly walked her to the door and then let go of her hand. Without protest, she stumbled out, and the door slammed shut behind her.
She remained awake throughout the night, pacing in her room, clawing hands across her skin. Though unsure whether or not she’d be welcome in the morning, she did not flee at once for the hills—or rather the valleys—for the secret might not have been found out. He could have assumed the obvious. An obvious she hadn’t even considered till now.
It was truly a foolish thing that she almost wished he knew her as his enemy rather than believe her an honored guest who had betrayed his trust and kindness.
The comb she’d buried under some loose stones in the corner of the cave and only then after breaking the iron teeth and hiding them likewise in another corner. Her only hope now was that he would not notice or question the minute scar at the base of his hair.
When morning came, she waited in the sitting room, all her things packed in her bag and her bow leaning against her knee. Perhaps she should have left already and waited for Adoh’s instructions on how to handle it from here, but she did not relish the thought of the King’s anger at her failure, and she was not sure she’d failed yet. As she waited, she studied the surrounding and discovered that it was not as bare as first impression had given. Soft furs draped over the stone seats and candles burned in alcoves, not for light but to awaken rich warm essence.
The sudden energy of the resident animals alerted her to his coming long before he ever made an appearance. And as time ticked by, and more and more animals disappeared down a hallway, she began to realize an appearance was not soon forthcoming.
Well, there was no use in prolonging the inevitable. Gathering calm into her core, she followed the trail of animals through the winding passages until the hall opened up into a large room filled with light. The light came from an enormous glass window in the domed ceiling. Or she supposed it was glass. Could have been ice. She could see the snow slopes through it, and that caused the morning light to shine in all the brighter. She wondered why the goblins had bothered to build a window for him, but then suspected that the sun might cast warmly on the skin during certain hours. The room itself was shaped in a cylinder, and all along its rocky walls were shelves of…..books.
Fingall reclined on a couch in the rays of light, all snow white and still, the only motion around him being a wildcat grooming itself upon his lap. He had a book propped open against the cat’s shoulders.
He did not acknowledge her at first, seeming engrossed in his book, which was strange since he could supposedly not read it. She watched how his fingers moved over the pages, and after a moment she became curious enough to open up another book nearby. There were no words on the pages at all, just strange little ridges and bumps. She ran her fingers over them and felt a sudden sensation of a blustery wind and a lost aching feeling—she snatched her hands away for it was faerie craft of the very highest kind. Somehow they’d given him stories through feeling instead of sight.
“Fair morning,” he said suddenly.
She jumped and set the book aside. “Also to you,” she said, feeling rather stupid in the reply.
“I take it you did not sleep well,” he said, snapping his book shut with an alarming crack that sent the cat jumping away. “Since you took to wandering last night.”
“I am sorry for the trespass,” she said stiffly. This was where she’d fail. Where she’d pay for her mistake and be glad of it.
“It was more than trespass. It was violation.” He had not moved, but somehow he changed to look like a terrible king. Yet as quickly as that vision came, it passed, leaving him sagging and hurt. “Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why did you look?”
She held her tongue for a long and dreadful moment. So. His only accusation was about her looking. It seemed he had not felt the scratch, so she still had a chance. Wonderful. She felt sick.
“I am sorry.”
“That is no explanation.”
She lulled her thoughts around a bit, testing them out in silence, before she dared to speak. The most convincing lies were those flavored in truth. “I told you I was a changling child,” she said. “But I did not say by whom I was taken. I was raised in the Unseelie Court.”
The air in the room shifted, and he straightened in the couch, taking his feet from the cushions to rest upon the ground.
“I do not remember who I was before, only that the faerie man who took me was no father. I was not stolen for beauty or acclaim. I was stolen because he wanted something expendable and easy to train. But I was not so easy as he thought. No, I fought a great deal against his will and lived among the Dark Folk in resentment and dismay. When I was old enough, I ran. And they had tired enough
of me to let me go.”
“What did you do?”
“I took up work as a hunter for the mortal villages in the lowlands. I collect pelts and make my living that way. If there was one thing useful I learned from the fey folk it was how to move unseen and aim precisely.”
“But why try to look at me? Did you in fact see my face?” he demanded.
“My Lord, again, I am sorry. I have offended your graciousness and do not deserve to remain here any longer. I accepted your hospitality at first because I was in need of shelter and provision, and it seemed to me you were kind. But I became afraid last night that it was all a trick. I had fallen to many a trick when I was a child. Illusions are the strength of the Unseelie. So in a moment of foolish fear, I did try to see what you were exactly. And no, I did not see you. I only felt more strongly than ever that you are indeed pure and good, and it was ridiculous of me to suspect illusion when you covered your appearance with cloth and no glamour.”
“I see.” He reached out a hand for the cat, coaxing it back with a rub of his fingers. It arched under his touch, purring loudly. “I forgive you then. I know what it is like,” and his voice edged bitterly, “to fear the deceptions of the Unseelie Court.”
Her stomach upended. Swallowing hard, she dipped her head and thought for sure he might feel her trembling through the floor. “I…….do not deserve forgiveness, fair lord.”
“Forgiveness is a gift, not meant to be deserved,” he said.
He meant it. Somehow, he really meant it. Without another word, she bowed and hurried from the room.
She couldn’t get out into the cold, open mountains fast enough. And when she escaped, she hunted all day, and did not return until the stars had already stepped forth from behind their dusky veil.
7
Keeva woke to the smell of blood.
The scent drifted through her door from the hall leading to the main chamber. She slipped out of bed, already gripping a knife, and crept down the passage, listening for any tell-tale sound of danger. She could hear the whines of little animals and a soft wet noise she could not quite place.
Fairest Son Page 4