by Sage, May
"Wait!" I only have time to scream before the ground collapses beneath our feet, and the air crackles, propelling us with a terrible force. My head hits the ground so hard I feel dizzy, and I can taste blood in my mouth. All around me, there's nothing but chaos. I have to blink several times before I understand the issue isn't my vision. We're engulfed in a storm of dust.
A bomb. One of us stepped on it. I've heard about them, of course, but it's the first time I've ever experienced one.
"Ive?" I can barely hear a word I'm saying. I must have ruptured an eardrum, or hit my head too hard. “Ina, Jules, Lucan?” I call everyone one by one, hoping their hearing's better than mine at the moment. "Scatter. You go back to Whitecroft. We're making a detour. Meda? With us."
Through the dust, I spot the pixie. She nods, understanding me, and follows after.
It doesn't matter whether the landmine had been planted specifically for us or if it's just coincidental we set it off; everyone a hundred miles off has heard it, and knows our location. I have to hope that, if the others haven't heard me, they're smart enough to get the hell out of here and return to Whitecroft.
That is, assuming they’re still alive. I don’t let myself think about it.
The first part of our mission was a phenomenal failure, but it doesn't mean that we have to give up on the second. Especially now that we know what the mortals are capable of.
We're veering to the north when the first arrow flies past me. Then, there's another, and another after that. They're shooting blind, in the dark, but it's a volley; many come close. I hear a grunt, but I can't stop.
"Meda." Vlari's alarm makes me turn.
Her grandmother's some paces to our left and a footlong arrow sticks out of her shoulder.
I dart to her side, and pull her on my shoulder, too.
Running at full speed while carrying two pixies, I tire faster than I would like. When the arrows stop for a moment, I take cover behind a tree, and kneel on the ground.
"Now isn't the time for a break, boy," the pixie barks at me, before groaning.
Vlari hops off me and moves to her grandmother, pulling the arrow out without any warning. She rips some of her undershirt off and ties it around Meda's shoulder while I do, indeed, rest. And calm down.
It takes a few breaths to feel in touch with my magic. Myst gathers around us, faster than I remember it ever coming to me.
"Your hands," I ask, removing my gloves to touch them skin to skin.
Vlari and Meda take my offered palms, and I pull them along with me, leading my Myst as far north as I've ever gone, then farther still, as deep inside the Murkwood as any fae can venture.
I only let go when I feel my magic straining, taxing me too much. The Myst is a dangerous tool, but an endless stream of clueless tutors had shown me how to harness and control it at Whitecroft. The first lesson was to never push past my limits. Unless I want it to kill me.
We're all out of breath, tense, and filled with ire.
But we're safe, for now.
We landed in a glade, so deep inside the Murkwood we could be on seelie territory—or at the borders.
"These hills," Meda says, with a wince, waving to the elevations in the distance. "I know them." She's struggling more than she should be after one shot. Getting hit by an arrow is never pleasant, but there's something else going on.
The moment I start to suspect it, the stench of poison hits my nostrils. The arrow was iron tipped, and laced with something.
"Her wound," I say.
Vlari rips Meda's sleeve off, and we can see dark, almost-black blood ooze out of the cut, drenching the makeshift bandage.
Meda swears. "Salt and bane."
Vlari's eyes widen. "How will it affect you?"
Poisons would only weaken me or her for a time, but pixies are not gentry folk.
"Depends on how much they used. Help me up."
The last thing she should be doing is getting up. "You need to rest."
"What I need," Meda replies, getting to her feet, "is to reach those hills. They mark the start of the Darker Woods, which belongs to the Court of Sunlight."
Seelie land.
Vlari and I glance at each other.
"Do you think they'll help you?"
"I know they will. Let's go. Before something worse than humans catches our scent."
Fair Folk
Vlari
I grin as my boots hit the mossy ground.
Drusk is quick to catch it. “You know, most people would be trembling at the idea of approaching the seelie folk when they hate our guts. Not to mention that we're in the land of the wild folk.”
“Most people aren’t me.”
When I ran through the Murkwood last, I was anxious. Ten years ago. A few weeks ago, to me. The passage of time is written over the forest; there’s no denying that it’s changed in a decade. I feel fewer creatures roaming around us. They’ve retreated north to the deepest part of the woods, in seelie land, away from the human settlements.
The human presence has affected the entirety of Tenebris, not just the courts.
The thing that changed most in all this time is me. I don’t fear anything here. Not the fachan, not the headless huntsmen, not the nightmares. Not because the wild folk aren’t terrifying, ferocious, and bloodthirsty. There is no doubt that each and every one of them would delight in claiming a chunk of flesh from a high court urchin. But the last time I came here, I was another person. Vlari the small. Vlari the inconsequential. Vlari the shadow cursed, under Morgana’s poisonous spells.
That girl no longer exists.
I don't know how, given the fact that I never noticed him until now, but the wyrfox rubs his fur against my leg, demanding my attention. I rub his mist-covered head. “That’s right, boy. It’s where we met.”
Drusk hands me one of his knives. “Here? What were you doing in the Murkwood?”
I don’t think there will be any need for it, but I greedily pocket the blade and wink at him. “I'll tell you if you’re good.”
“I’m never that. You’ll tell me anyway.”
He may have a point.
If there was ever a path through these woods, it has long been overrun by crooked branches, rocks, and mushrooms. The shy folk of the woods know how to walk without disrupting nature—or leaving tracks for a hunter to follow.
Reaching for the hills Meda bid us to get to, we head farther north, past the mirror lake that was frozen long ago and remains that way through all seasons, until finally, we see it in the distance. The Old Keep.
“Part of me wishes I had the skills to compose a song,” I sigh. “Or sketch a pretty picture.”
Unsurprisingly, Drusk laughs at me. “When the gods were distributing abilities, they took a good look at you and decided your art was painting the land red with the blood of your enemies instead.”
I smile. I’m not sure he meant it as a compliment, but I choose to take it that way.
“That, and driving me insane.”
Not long after, I bristle, my senses alerting me to the presence of something hostile. “Feels like we’re going the right way.”
Drusk only nods, walking closer to me. I see his eyes take in our surroundings, leaving nothing unnoticed. He and I are so different. He's controlled, careful. He’s borderline seelie at heart. I grimace in distaste at that notion.
In the old world, the fae were ruled by one unseelie and one seelie monarch, married to keep the kingdom united. People could choose their allegiances at any time, standing with one court or another depending on their nature. I’ve even read about those who chose one side, and then the next a century after, only to come back to their first allegiance later on. It sounds messy. I can’t say whether our solution is any better, though. People born in Tenebris are unseelie and those of Denarhelm are seelie, by default, regardless of their nature. Some eventually travel away from their native home, but it’s rare.
I undoubtedly belong to the unseelie court. I’m fine with plans that are
more of a vague outline, happy to take care of issues when they arise. There’s nothing wrong with a little chaos. My amusement takes precedence over many other concerns—such as my survival, sometimes. I may very well die, but I sure will give the best jibe before I go. Drusk thinks a lot farther ahead than I do.
I glance at him, musing about how his nature and mine fit. He might just keep me alive, for one.
We're not unlike my mother and father were, I realize. Ciera is—was—all wants and needs, quick to dismiss anything that she didn't like the sound of; Nero considers his duties, the greater good. Thoughts of my father snuff out whatever joy I regained. My father, whose daughter killed his bondmate. He hates me now, no doubt. I haven't seen him since we buried Ciera.
I force myself to return to my former train of thoughts. Seelie, unseelie. I wonder if all mates are shaped that way, similar enough to fit, different enough to complete each other.
“What?” Drusk asks, without watching me.
He must have felt me looking at him.
I smirk, thinking about his reaction if I give him a real answer. If I told him what I’ve realized: that he was made for me. Or, I suppose, I was made for him, technically. I’m the younger one.
He likes me. He even wants me. It may confuse him, given that I’m not much to look at, too short to be graceful, too prickly to be pleasant, and unlike the rest of the ladies of the court, not fawning all over his delicious muscles. I would, but his ego doesn’t need it. But for all the likes and wants, Drusk is nowhere near accepting that fate has tied his life to mine yet.
I came to that conclusion by myself, and he should have the chance to guess it too.
“Nothing. I was just wondering if you were trying to signal your presence, or if you’re just that bad at stealth. Is this what you’re teaching the folk in your classes?”
He rolls his eyes, exasperated with me. “Not all of us can be three feet tall, pixie.”
I walked into that dig. “Five, I’ll have you know.”
By midnight, I hate to admit it, but I start to tire. Endurance has never been my strength, and I’ve kept up with Drusk’s pace for miles—one of his strides is about three of mine. I don't complain, though. Meda's a lot worse off than I am.
Just as I open my mouth to suggest taking a break, Drusk bends down to my side and wraps his arm around me. Almost automatically, I leap, and he catches me, to perch me on his shoulder. Considering his hulking build, I fit. The protective padding of his coat even makes it comfortable.
I choose to be offended nonetheless. “I’m not that slow. You should take Meda.”
"I'll pass," she shouts without turning back.
Now that he’s holding me, though, I can tell he was slowing down for my benefit before. We’re moving at a much faster pace, gliding through the forest almost as fast as a cloaked shade.
Damn him.
“Sure.” Sarcasm drips from his words. “I figured you’d want us to get to the border before next year, though.”
I’m mad, but not mad enough to give up my seat, so I just zap him with a burst of Void, fast enough to avoid any damage, but getting drained can’t be pleasant either way.
He says nothing to indicate he felt anything at all, not even a grunt. I’m considering doing it again, but I smell Drusk’s retaliation before I feel it, a distinct stench hitting my nostrils. Then my neck’s suddenly uncomfortably warm. I tap at the back of it, putting out a flame.
My eyes take in our surroundings with one glance, but we’re still entirely too alone, without so much as a rabbit in sight.
When it hits me, my jaw drops. “My hair. You burned my hair!”
I feel him shrug under me. “What’s left of it.”
“Do you remember what happened to the last person who did something to my hair?”
“If you can’t handle the consequences, may I suggest you refrain from testing me?”
I may murder him. Gleefully. The only person allowed to attack my hair is me.
I kick the back of my heel against his chest, and try to jump back on the ground, but he just laughs it off, keeping me in place with one arm around my thighs.
“Calm down.”
As though that phrase has ever worked on any woman. “I’m going to—”
“Vlari.” His tone has changed. Gone is all amusement; I catch a layer of alarm underneath.
I stop wiggling and look around.
We’ve reached a valley. I can’t be sure, but given the direction we’ve been going, I think we may be at the very edge of unseelie territory. On the right side stands the last of the Shadow Peaks, and on the left, the Dread Hills, at the edge of Darker Woods. In the darkness, I can’t see much ahead, but we could finally be on seelie land.
“Do you see anything?” My voice has fallen to a whisper.
“I don’t need to. They’re in the darkness.”
Of course. I try not to feel too jealous at the fact that his power allows him to sense anything hiding in darkness.
Out loud, I call, “Come out! We’ve come for a chat, not a stabbing.”
Meda, who no doubt had a much better speech ready, sighs, but my words were efficient enough: I see shapes approach from either side of the woods, surrounding us.
The first creature I can distinguish is a hag, older than anything I’ve seen, if one is to judge by the thousands of folds around her beady, pearly white eyes. Her teeth are filed into points marred by fresh blood, and she wears nothing, other than her veil of thin silver-white hair. Her clawed feet support scaled legs so thin I don’t know how she stands upright.
“Truly, no chance for a little stabbing?” she croaks, her grin terrifying.
“It has been long since we’ve tasted gentry blood,” says a voice full of longing, coming from the other side.
I turn to see a fachan, fixing me with a stare.
"Enough, Gridi," Meda chides. "It's my grandchild you're threatening."
The hag lifts a hand, and a sphere of light bursts out of it. She squints, and then gasps. "Well, my old bones! If it isn't the great Meda. The king will have a thing or two to say about you showing your face here, after everything you did."
Meda did something to the king of the Court of Sunlight? This doesn't sound good. At all.
"You know he'll want to see me." She narrows her eyes. "Without delay."
The hag snorts. "That he will."
Salt and Iron
Nebula
I'm stitching yet another damnable charm to another identical doublet when the high-pitched horn of an alarm resounds through Whitecroft.
I abandon my work and leap to my feet, rushing to the closest window. There's nothing wrong anywhere. The earth folk are redoing the foundations of the halls. For now, we're stuck in Whitecroft Hall, but we're rebuilding six of the seven halls.
"Here!" Poera calls from the other side of the room. She went to a window, but it faces west.
Ronda and I join her, and I curse.
There's an army approaching from the west, led by salamanders. They're coming at us through the Arm of Sea. They know about the weakness under our shield caused by the water.
I don't hesitate, putting on one of the doublets I was working on over my silk shirt and rushing downstairs.
I have to be useful. I know how to fight. Whatever my brother says, I can fight for my people just as well as he.
I reach the entry hall, presided over by a lord I recognize as the old queen's consort, Alven Oberon. He gives orders. Long-range archers to the upper floor; every builder to reinforce the gates; those who can't fight, inside; those who can't do magic, outside with steel and bows; those who can, at the gates.
I take a sword, a bow, a quiver of arrows, and head out, closing my doublet.
I can do this. I can do this. I have to do this.
I follow a company of guards and soldiers to the waterside, and stand guard.
I wait. For what seems like an endless amount of time, I wait. They must have been an hour away when I saw the
m upstairs, but we have to be here, ready to push them back the moment they appear.
So we wait.
I need to pee. This doesn't seem like the sort of time when bodily functions would constrain me, but here it is. I rush back to the castle and find an empty corner where I can relieve myself, before returning to my position.
By the time I return, the first humans have reached us.
They take to the river, swimming deep under the shield. I extend my bow, aiming for the sea. Archery isn't my specialty, but I'm good enough for this. Good enough for picking off humans.
The first few die before they can hope to reach the shores, but there's so many of them. So many.
We kill hundreds, thousands. Some do make it to the riverbank, and now the first line of fae against us must abandon their bows for their swords. More humans spill into our territory. Their bodies fall at our feet. We have to step on them. It's awkward. The smell of blood clogs the air, making me feel sick. I'm getting tired and my arm aches, but I never stop slicing whatever my blade can reach: throats, shins, the weakness in their armor between their shoulders and their necks. Anything I can do to hurt. To kill.
I will protect my home.
And then, the first salamanders reach us, and there is fire.
Vlari
I don't have to ask where these woods got their name. There are so many trees, all clustered together, that the abundant foliage covers the sky—we can't even see the light of the moon. These woods must be dark even during the day.
Within less than an hour, we've reached the head of a fortified stronghold. The woods mustn't be very extensive. I suppose “Darker Grove” doesn't sound quite as dramatic.
Everything about the seelie castle is alien, different, other, and yet, so very fae in nature.
At the gate, the two knights wear the exact same uniform, polished to perfection. They're even the same height. Both are dark-haired. I wouldn't be surprised if they were twins.