by Sarah Remy
“But—” Morgan protested.
“Do as I say,” Liam snapped. “And be quick about it.”
Parsnip turned her chestnut, kicking it into a gallop toward Wilhaiim. The clatter of her departure sent the turkeys to flapping. Arthur dismounted, tied his pony and the gray gelding to the back of the wagon, then took up Holder’s long whip. He cracked it once; the black cow walked obediently forward.
“Bear’s left a plain trail,” Holder said, stepping into the wheat. When Liam followed, the crop closed around his shoulders and over the farmer’s head. “Straight back and then west.”
Liam loosened his sword in its scabbard. “Farrow’s cottage at the end of it,” he predicted.
“Know that for certain, do you?” Holder flicked a glance over his shoulder. It was oddly cool inside the crop. The wheat smelled ripe.
Liam nodded but didn’t elaborate. One for sorrow, Arthur had said upon seeing Jacob riding the wind. Now Liam wished he’d paid more attention.
“Did the trapper have a family?”
“Just the wife.” Holder used the tip of his scythe to bludgeon a larger trail over the hound’s spoor. “I came upon her once this spring, hunting for truffles near the Maiden. She said they regretted the lack now they counted themselves lucky because they had no child for the Worm to steal away.”
Liam spotted more scarlet in the amber, bloody streaks left on the wheat at knee height. He whistled softly to draw Holder’s attention, nodded at the stain.
“Not so lucky after all,” Liam said with regret. “If I read the signs aright.”
Bear’s track ran straight west. The barrowman, if it had come from Trapper Farrow’s land, seemed to be doubling back. The hound’s prints were clear in the soft ground. Less distinct were the sidhe’s footprints, long narrow toes and flat arches scuffed into the topsoil.
“They’ve got bones like birds,” Holder murmured as they paused where Bear had pressed a patch of the crop flat with her circling before continuing on. “Hollow inside, but strong. Makes them light across the ground, and fast.”
Liam frowned. “Do you know, or are you guessing?”
“Caught one in my barn, once.” The farmer glanced up at the sun, checking its place on the horizon, before striding on. “A long time ago, when I was about your age. Aye, it was quick, but all the iron in the building muddled its head, like. We backed it into a corner and used our cudgels to strike it down. Da struck off its head for safety. We trained the dogs on its bones.” Holder hummed thoughtfully. “It never made a sound as it died. I thought mayhap it lacked a tongue, but Da wrenched open its jaw and it did have one, just like our own, behind sharp teeth.”
Liam gulped back bile. “You might have left it alone. Could be it meant you no harm.”
Holder’s dark mirth shook the wheat. “It must be true what they say in the taverns and on the city streets, then. You’ll defend the sidhe folk, will you, even after they marked you all over with their sign? I wonder, are your bones hollow or have you marrow like a man?”
“I am a man,” Liam retorted. “A better man than you, I ken.” He ached with wanting to knock the farmer into the dirt. He bit the inside of his lip until the desire passed.
“You’re young, yet,” retorted Holder. Then: “Hsst! Softly, now. Bear’s spoor ends here with the wheat. That’s Farrow’s smokehouse up ahead.”
They’d come further, faster, than Liam had realized. Bear’s trail—or the sidhe’s—had indeed run straight as a compass point through the crop. Golden stalks fell away to puny brown stems then cleared to dirt. The trees they’d glimpsed from the road were green even in the heat, leaves large as dinner plates. Farrow’s sturdy stone cottage squatted atop a low, grassy hill on the other side of the pleasant grove. On the flat land between trees and wheat field, up off the soil on short stilts, stood a square brick building with a high, peaked roof and a narrow chimney.
Two tom turkeys hung by their feet from a hook outside the smokehouse door. The birds were headless, much fatter than the hens the barrowman had chased through the crop. A draining bowl lay overturned on the ground beneath them, contents spilled. Flies buzzed hungrily around a slop of drying gore and scattered feathers.
“That explains it,” Holder said as they cautiously approached the brick outbuilding. “Barrowman filched its supper here and filled its belly while tracking the hens.”
Liam studied the pair of sundered talons hanging alongside the two toms. The feet were knotted in the same rope. Flies feasted on dangling flags of flesh where the rest of the corpse had been pulled away.
“Sidhe couldn’t loosen the bindings,” Liam hazarded. “Easier just to wrench the meat down. But why didn’t it take the whole brace?” He tested the brace. The birds were heavy, and it took strength to snap bone and tear flesh as the barrowman had done.
Liam looked away from the turkeys, toward the cottage. It was a pretty plot, carefully tended, with flowers in clay pots near a regimented vegetable garden and hens scratching about beneath a sturdy coop. A sandy path on the opposite side of the rise wound toward a separate stone cellar.
The cottage door was shut; painted blue shutters obscured the single window. Liam smelled old wood smoke but the chimney was cold. Except for the busy chickens, the homestead felt deserted.
“Something scared it off,” Holder agreed. “Not Farrow, he wouldn’t have left this mess untended.” The farmer bared his teeth in resignation. “Draw your sword; this place is too quiet for my comfort.”
They passed beneath the trees, briefly escaping sunlight before stepping back into heat. A nanny goat lay on her side in the shade against the cottage stoop. She watched them as they crossed the knoll, ears flicking indolently. Her udders were distended. She bleated as they neared the house, but didn’t make to rise.
“Hello the house!” Holder shouted. “George Farrow, are you about?”
They had no answer but the nanny’s imperative cry.
“Try the door,” Holder said.
The latch fell easily open to Liam’s hand. He pushed and the door swung open. The house breathed out warm air and with it the scent of stale lard and fresh beeswax. Past the square of light on rough floorboards from the open door, the single room was dark.
“Mistress Farrow?” Liam called over the threshold. “Mistress? Are you in?”
“Move aside,” Holder ordered. The farmer set his scythe down on the stoop, took a stub of candle and a flint from his belt, and lit the wick. Cupping the flame in with one hand, he stepped into the house, saying over his shoulder, “Stay here.”
Liam did as he was asked, although with growing trepidation. His fingers cramped and sweated on the pommel of his sword. His mouth was dry. Waiting, he thought, as the low sun beat across the back of his neck and his sword grew heavy, was hard.
Holder threw the shutters open from inside, startling both Liam and the nanny goat. The goat jumped up, shaking herself all over. Liam scowled.
“Forsaken,” the farmer declared over the sill. He blew out the flame of his candle. “Come in and see for yourself. Bring my blade.”
Liam sheathed his sword. He entered the cottage, deliberately stepping over the scythe on the stoop. Holder growled. Ignoring him, Liam took stock of the small space. Farrow’s home was remarkable only for the abundance of furs hung on the walls and spread across the low bed. A wooden screen divided the bedroom from the living area. A cook pot was suspended over dead ashes on the hearth; two empty plates waited nearby. When Liam looked into the pot he found a congealed stew.
“Today’s breakfast,” he guessed as Holder returned with his scythe securely on his belt. “Much longer than a day in this weather and it would start to stink. Table laid out but they didn’t get around to eating.”
“They were expecting trouble,” Holder said. “Or they’ve had some. This is recent.” He indicated a narrow wooden shingle nailed to the lintel just inside the cottage door. A single theist sigil decorated the tile. The elaborate rune pulsed cloudy silver.
“Protective spell like that lightened Farrow’s purse considerably,” the farmer said, impressed. “Be a shame if it failed him in the end.”
Liam regarded the other man with dislike. “The cottage is undisturbed,” he pointed out.
“Best check everywhere,” Holder agreed. “Leave the window open. I see the dust of horses down the lane. The guard’ll want a good look once they’re here.” Apparently not inclined to sit and wait for the Kingsmen, he started over the hill in the direction of the cellar, scattering chickens as he went.
Liam hurried after. The path snaked its way down the hill between a family of young birch trees. Here and there a white stump stuck out of the grass where Farrow had taken time to clear away growth. At the base of the hill a small pond, festooned with late-flowering lily pads, butted up almost against the cellar’s gray stone foundation. Frogs voiced a merry chorus, heralding the coming evening.
The stone cellar sat low to the ground, flat-roofed and windowless. Someone had painted the plank door a cheerful blue to match the cottage shutters. It was unlocked. Behind the door, gray stone steps led straight down into the earth. When Holder kindled his candle stub again they glimpsed pelts of all shapes and sizes hanging from low eaves.
“Lantern,” Liam said, plucking it off a hook inside the door. Holder touched his wick to the chimney. Partway down into the earth, Liam held the light over his head. He couldn’t help but admire Farrow’s skill; amongst the more common deer and rabbit skins he saw the more difficult fox, beaver, and bear.
“There’ll be plenty more below,” Holder said with grudging admiration. “Farrow’s got a knack for the business. Not just the trapping, but the tanning and cutting. George!” He shouted past Liam. “Are you down here, man?”
Liam counted fifteen steps down into cellar. The air grew chill. Niches were cut into the earthen walls: rough shelves filled with jars of fruit and vegetable and smoked meat put up until winter. The bottom chamber was simple, square, and cold. Piles of fur hid the dark earth below. In the light of the lantern the pelts shone brown and silver and sable. Many were striped and several were beautifully piebald. It was an abundance of riches.
In the scant light of the lantern Liam didn’t immediately understand that much of the dappling was evidence of slaughter. Then stink of blood and bowel hit and he gasped, and used the edge of his sleeve to cover his nose.
“Aug save us.” Holder took the lantern from Liam’s trembling fingers. He held it out, gaping down at the dead man atop the mound of furs. “The barrowman’s killed him.”
“Is it Farrow?” Breathing shallowly, Liam made himself step close for a better look. The corpse lay on its back, eyes closed, limbs lax. If not for the spatter of fluid marring the furs he might have been simply resting.
“Aye.” Holder took the lantern carefully around the small space, shining light over a second, lesser pile of pelts and into every corner. “But where’s his goodwife? Not here. The guard will be at the cottage by now. Go up and catch their attention, lad. It’s here they’re needed.” He sighed, gazing again upon Farrow. “I’ll keep George company whilst you do, poor man.”
Liam nodded. Heart in his throat, he raced back up the steps into daylight. He didn’t mind the crash of heat; it was far better than the reek of death caught in the cellar. He ran back up the trail, shouting. Through the young birch grove he caught the flash of Kingsman red. He heard the stamp of restless hooves then a familiar baying.
The brindled hound raced to great him, tongue lolling. Lather ran in strings from her jaws. Liveried soldiers jogged in her wake and with them, to Liam’s chagrin, hastened Malachi and Avani.
Chapter 7
“I did say the wards had been recharged.” Faolan unwound his scarf from his head, settling it instead around his shoulders. The gem in his torque shone faintly yellow, giving his thin face a ghoulish cast in the night. “I didn’t realize the guardian would take a dislike to you also.”
“Apparently I stink of sidhe.” Everin did not bother to hide his bitterness.
“You belong to us,” Faolan agreed. “Interesting that the old woman could tell. The magi were a formidable foe. I never thought I’d come to regret their extinction.”
“More fool you if you do.” Everin took his bearings from the pinprick of stars overhead. “Which way?”
“The horses are four leagues east.” Faolan left his grassy nest. “Hobbled along the river, assuming the spell still holds.”
“And from there?”
“Four days further straight north and east, away from the river, as I said. Until flatland gives out and once again we go up. I’m sure you remember the way. It’s changed little since last you saw it.”
Everin lengthened his stride to catch Faolan up.
“I’m not equipped for Skerrit’s Pass.”
“Of course you’re not.” Faolan slipped around Everin’s hand. The light in his torque had ebbed. The road along the river was no King’s Highway. It was wide enough for cart or horse, but the sand was baked to a hard crust and rutted by wagon wheels. It was a lane for farmers, and merchants, and the occasional tinker, but Mors Keep was the last human stronghold before the mountains. Few were eager to travel beyond.
“Nor were you last time around,” Faolan continued, dry as the path they walked. “If not for the dullahan you bribed to your cause you’d never have made the ascent in one piece.”
Everin, who didn’t believe in the theist’s one god, nevertheless crossed himself shoulder-to-shoulder and throat to groin. It hadn’t been a simple thing to convince the dullahan to help him escape his imprisonment in the mounds. He’d had to resort to promises he hoped he’d never have to keep, and he still suffered nightmares of that wild ride on the back of the winged sidhe monster. The dullahan, an aes si so ancient few recalled its name, wore the torso and head of a mailed knight above the body of a gigantic serpent. The large, dark wings sprouting between its shoulders smelled of leather and dust. Everin had escaped Skerrit’s Pass in one piece, but the dullahan’s primal magic had left Everin shaken to the core.
“The dullahan sleeps again, like so many of our others,” Faolan said in what Everin supposed was meant to be reassurance. “It woke but briefly for your folly. As for Skerrit’s Pass, we needn’t climb so far as you fear. These desert wolves did most of that hard work for us. They might have made it all the way out of the foothills if I hadn’t come upon them first.”
“How many?” demanded Everin. “Soldiers or scouts?”
“Scouts, I believe. Six, to begin with. Now? Who can say?” He laughed without mirth. “We starve in the deep, our tunnels blocked. Human flesh is an almost irresistible treat, even at the best of times.”
Everin’s breakfast threatened to rise. Faolan snorted.
“Even after all this time,” the aes si mused. “You are still affected. Best hurry. My people are voracious and we’re still days away.”
The road ran in tandem with the riverbank, narrowing to little more than a goat path once they’d left the last summer-ripe field behind. Thick hedges grew between the track and the river, hiding the water behind thorny branches. Small night creatures rustled the grass. An owl screeched from somewhere overhead and the undergrowth went immediately still. Everin walked in Faolan’s footsteps to keep from stubbing his toes or falling. He sweated through his jerkin, wishing he’d thought to shave his beard. When they stopped to drink he found peace in counting the stars in the sky.
There were stars under the earth, as well, twinkling shards of mineral frozen forever in tunnel walls and cavern ceilings. Those were the false stars Everin had grown up with. Their beauty was nothing compared to the real thing.
He squirted water from the skin he held on to his face and beard, washing away sweat, then passed it to Faolan. The sidhe cupped water in his hands and splashed it across his cheeks before taking another long drink. Faolan was visibly diminished in the heat, shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his robes. He plucked at the torque manaclin
g his neck when he thought Everin wasn’t looking.
The sidhe folk had been exiled too long underground. If ever they reclaimed the land they’d lost and walked again regularly in open air, Everin suspected, they might suffer in their triumph.
“You’d never set foot outside the mounds when you arranged your first escape,” Faolan said, tossing Everin the waterskin. The aes si hadn’t lost his penchant for guessing a man’s thoughts from his expression. “Did you want it any less?”
“Nay.”
“How much more the inclination when we remember what we’ve lost? Some things are worth the hardship.”
The hedgerows turned to trees as they journeyed on, many of them older than Everin, towering sycamores with spreading, forked branches. Their jagged leaves were as large as a man’s palm, tranquil without a breeze to tease them into motion. Smaller saplings clustered between, young oaks and an occasional wild rose. The roses smelled sweet in the night and made Everin consider Malachi Serrano, now called Doyle, of Rose Keep, who had against all odds been born a magus when those lines should have been pruned out of existence.
According the law of the land Lord Richard should have sacrificed his second son to the sword blade as soon as Mal showed any sign of magic. But the sea lords were a wily bunch, and in the merchant marine two sons were more prosperous than one. Everin supposed by the time the Selkirk realized Mal had no tolerance for the sea it was too late. A man would love his son, no matter the lad’s shortcomings. Or mayhap Mal had been clever in hiding his growing power, kept his dangerous proclivities concealed until finally he came to the throne’s attention.
Renault was the crux of it. Renault, who chose greed over wisdom, who overturned the Aug’s royal decree, sparing first Andrew and then Malachi from execution, and in so doing made the magi his own. Renault was of a certain his mother’s son—she’d been a stubborn, willful queen from a stubborn, willful line, and critical of history to boot. Everin pitied Renault the burden of ambition. Wilhaiim’s crown always sat easier on an indifferent head.