“I can’t imagine.”
Cassie smiled. “Couldn’t resist turning me into some kind of woodland nymph, eh?” She patted Tarian’s cheek; it turned into a caress. In response, Tarian pulled her close and kissed her.
At last they parted, and Cassie regarded the now crushed petals. “I recognise the bluebells. But what were the pink-tinged white stars?”
“Wood anemones.”
“Nice. Do I get breakfast too?”
“Always thinking of your stomach.”
“If I don’t, who will?”
Tarian remembered the bar snacks she had seen on sale in the pub. They wouldn’t miss one. A minor spell later, a small packet lay in her hand. “Here.” She handed it over.
“Nuts and raisins. Thanks.”
Cassie was tearing her way hungrily into the packet when a series of barks, faint at first but becoming louder, made Tarian turn. She was just in time to witness Drysi and Anwar leaping through the shimmer between the alders.
“They’re back,” said Cassie, as the dogs, ears pricked and tails wagging, came to greet them.
Tarian fussed over them then crouched next to them and asked, “What did you discover?”
Drysi looked at her partner, as if to say, “Your turn,” and lay down, resting her chin on her extended front paws. Anwar locked gazes with Tarian, and a series of vivid images popped into her head.
Heathland dotted with gorse, heather, and whortleberry.
In the distance a herd of wild horses gallops, manes streaming. A herd of red deer turn their heads towards her (or rather Anwar), eyes wide with alarm. They stand like statues, ears pricked, bodies shivering, poised on the edge of flight. Then they relax, put a few yards more between themselves and the watcher, and resume their quiet grazing.
The view shifts. In the distance are thickly wooded slopes and on the summit of one hill stands a crumbling watchtower.
Tarian sucked in her breath. She had seen that watchtower before, she was sure of it. But where? And when? On one of her hunting expeditions?
“What is it?” Cassie rested a hand on Tarian’s shoulder.
“This entrance must lead to the outskirts of Faerie. Few Fae choose to live there anymore.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“If you mean that it’s as far from Mab’s domain as it’s possible to get and still be in Faerie, then yes.” Tarian turned back to the waiting Anwar. “Go on,” she ordered.
A rutted track winds past the ruined watchtower, down a steep hill, and past a water mill, where the miller is loading sacks of flour into a wagon. The track continues, past bustling hamlets and smallholdings, until a walled manor house comes into view.
“Any sign of the real James Farley?” asked Cassie.
“Not yet.”
The scene has changed. It’s evening, and she’s looking at a pigsty. Pigs and piglets jostle one another, struggling to get their snouts into the trough.
A huge sow with a black tail moves to one side. Tarian caught a glimpse of something that shouldn’t be there: a whip-thin, young man with hair the colour of carrots. With both hands the man reaches into the trough, crams swill into his mouth, and reaches for more.
The resemblance between man and changeling was instantly obvious. But where the changeling’s human features reflected the crudeness of the underlying doll, his features were softer. The gaunt frame, the scars from old injuries, the cuts and bruises from more recent ones, told a harsh story.
A revelation struck her. “Of course.” Tarian stopped the flow of images with a gesture and thanked Anwar with a pat. He grunted, sank down next to Drysi, and rested his head on his front paws.
“What?” prompted Cassie, impatient.
“It was his hair that caught their attention,” said Tarian. “No Fae has hair that colour.”
Cassie blinked at her in disbelief. “They abducted him simply because he had red hair?”
“Humans buy puppies for their looks.”
“But . . .” Cassie shook her head. “Never mind. Is he all right at least? Are the Fae doting on him as you said they might?”
Tarian grimaced.
Cassie’s hand flew to her mouth. “How bad is it?”
Should she tell Cassie he was eating with the pigs? “Bad.”
“We can’t leave him there.” Cassie’s tone was decisive. “He has to go back to his parents, where he belongs.”
Tarian’s heart sank. She had feared this might happen. “They may not even be alive, Cassie. And if they are, they won’t have known their son was missing. As far as they were concerned, the changeling was their son.”
“But he’s dead now.”
Tarian shook her head. “There was no body for a funeral.”
“We have to get the real James back,” repeated Cassie. Her jaw had taken on that mutinous jut it acquired whenever she was determined on something. Did she realise what she was asking? Probably not.
Tarian continued to fight a rearguard action, despising herself even as she did so. James’s life must be grim, but why must they be the ones to rescue him? “The shock of returning to your world could be more than he can handle.”
“It can’t be worse than leaving him where he is.” Cassie stared at Tarian as if seeing her for the first time. “Why are you creating obstacles? If it were me, you wouldn’t leave me there, would you?”
“That’s different.”
“No it isn’t.”
Boar droppings! Still. She had tried. “Very well. I’ll go and get him.”
She saw the moment when her meaning sank in. “You?” Cassie’s consternation was obvious. “But you can’t, Tarian. When I said we must get him back I didn’t mean that you personally—” Her eyes filled with panic. “Can’t the dogs—? No, of course they can’t. Oh hell.” She paused, then her face cleared. “Mab didn’t threaten me. If you were to tell the dogs to guide me—”
“I’d rather kill them.” Before Cassie could react, Tarian continued, “Besides, what good would it do? Do you really think the kidnappers are going to hand the real James Farley over to the first mortal that asks?”
“Perhaps that was a bit naïve,” conceded Cassie. She blinked. “I know. Send word to Einion. He’ll get James back if you ask him to.”
Tarian considered the suggestion, before giving her head a regretful shake. “Einion would do it for friendship’s sake, but he’s loyal to Mab. He’d feel bound to tell her what he was doing, and she’d thwart him just for the fun of it. No, I must go myself.”
“But Mab threatened to unmake you.” Cassie’s voice had become a wail, and Tarian wrapped comforting arms around her.
“Hush. I told you. This part of Faerie is a long way from Mab’s domain. Chances are I can get in, get James, and get out again before Mab even knows I was there.”
“Chances are?” Cassie gave her a bleak look.
“You said it yourself, we can’t leave him there.” I could, but you couldn’t, not with that tender mortal heart of yours.
“Me and my big mouth.” Cassie sagged against her. “I wish I’d never mentioned tracking him down in the first place.”
Tarian smiled. “Nevertheless. I must go. You know I must.”
The jut returned to Cassie’s jaw. “And I’m coming with you.”
“WHAT DO YOU mean, no trace?” Angor glared at his steward.
Two strange wolfhounds had been sighted hanging around the pigsty. A steward should be aware of everything that happened on his lord’s estate, but Puw had no knowledge of why the pigboy should be the object of such singular interest or the identity of the hounds’ owner. Not that he hadn’t tried to find out.
The pigboy touched his split lip and winced, knowing he had escaped lightly. But even the violence-fond Puw had realised that beating the pigboy to death couldn’t elicit information he didn’t have.
“My magic is but feeble,” said Puw, his manner ingratiating. “Perhaps if your lordship himself . . .” He trailed off.
&n
bsp; “What’s the point in having a steward if I must do everything myself?” But the scowl disappeared, and Angor’s gaze turned inwards and his narrow lips moved. The pigboy recognised the signs of a spell in progress.
After a moment, Angor’s brows drew together. “Their trail does indeed run cold.” His tone was thoughtful. “As if the hounds had crossed over into the mortal realm. But who would send—?” His face cleared. “By oak, ash, and thorn! Could it be her?”
“My lord?” asked Puw, baffled.
“I know of only one Fae who could be behind this.” Angor’s eyes tracked to the pigboy. “But of what possible interest could this pathetic creature be to her? For an exile to risk so great a penalty . . .” He shuddered at something only he could see.
“My lord?” repeated the steward, looking even more adrift.
Angor waved a gloved hand in irritation. “Cold iron take it, but you’re slow on the uptake sometimes, Puw. Still, it matters little if you understand. I have the measure of her now. And should her hounds return, or she herself decide to pay us a visit, we shall be more than ready.”
Chapter 8
The strange prickling sensation faded as Cassie stepped through into light much softer than that she was used to.
“All right?” asked Tarian.
“Fine.”
Cassie let go of Tarian’s hand and surveyed her surroundings. The bluebell glade at the heart of Holly Hurst had vanished. She was standing in the middle of wild heathland, bounded on all sides by pine-forested slopes. On the top of one hill perched a ruined tower. This landscape might be more barren than the pastures around Mab’s palace, but it had its own beauty. Heather streaked it with shades of pink and purple, and gorse in full bloom added attractive splashes of yellow. In the distance hovered a skylark, its song exuberant. Then Anwar and Drysi arrived, their joyful barks disturbing a cloud of small brown butterflies.
A thought struck Cassie. “How on earth will we be able to find the crossing again?” There were no distinctive landmarks except that distant tower.
“You may not be able to see it but I can,” reminded Tarian.
“Oh.”
The climate was cooler than Cassie remembered, but still pleasantly warm. A light breeze brought with it the sweet smell of gorse. Last time it had been honeysuckle.
“We’re going to need mounts.” Tarian shaded her eyes and turned in a circle. “Ah.”
Cassie followed her gaze. Several hundred yards away a herd of wild horses was grazing. One of the stallions raised its head and looked at Tarian, and Cassie realised that she was working a spell. The stallion began to canter towards them, and a smaller horse—a mare?—set off after him. The drumming of hooves, faint at first, grew louder.
No saddles, no bridles. Cassie’s heart sank. “You don’t expect me to ride bareback, do you?”
Tarian gave her an amused look. “You’ll be quite safe.”
The stallion slowed, covered the remaining distance at a trot, and came to a halt in front of Tarian, pawing the ground with one hoof. It gave the wolfhounds a wary look before deciding to ignore them. Moments later, the mare joined it.
Tarian held out her hands, palm up, and let the horses nose them. “It will only be for a little while,” she told them. She urged Cassie towards the stallion.
“Shouldn’t I have the smaller horse?”
“I’m keeping that for James Farley.”
“So we’re both riding the stallion?”
“How else am I to keep you in the saddle?”
Relief flooded through Cassie, then Tarian boosted her onto the horse’s broad back and swung herself up behind her. Muscular thighs pressed against Cassie’s hips and strong arms held her around the waist.
“Still think you’re going to fall?” Tarian’s breath was a warm tickle against Cassie’s ear.
“Maybe not.” She relaxed, enjoying the press of Tarian’s breasts against her back.
Tarian sent the dogs bounding off ahead, tracking the scent they had followed last time. The stallion followed them, the mare trailing along a few yards behind. And even when they broke into a gallop, Cassie found herself too engrossed by Tarian’s nearness and by the way she was guiding their mount—she could feel every squeeze of her knees and kick of her heels—to be scared.
THE TRACK DOWN from the summit was sickeningly steep. Rather than look down to where the dogs were waiting, bored, Cassie scrunched her eyelids closed. “What was that place?” she asked, referring to the crumbling grey tower they had just passed—anything to keep her mind off what would happen if the stallion lost his footing.
“A watchtower.” Tarian leaned back to aid their mount’s balance, forcing Cassie to do the same. “No longer used.”
“What did it watch for?”
“Enemies.”
The stallion’s stumble jolted Cassie forward, and she opened her eyes in fright just as Tarian’s arms tightened around her waist.
“It’s all right. I won’t let us fall.”
Cassie’s heart was pounding in her chest. She clutched Tarian’s hands. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
With a whicker of annoyance, the stallion found its footing and continued its descent. Unencumbered by riders, the mare was having a much easier time of it.
It helped to distract Cassie from her terror if she concentrated on the view. A river snaked through the fertile plain stretching into the distance, and a patchwork of fields and hedges indicated it was under cultivation. She wondered if the water mill in the distance was their destination.
“So the Fae must have enemies.” She resumed their earlier conversation. “Who?”
“Other Fae,” said Tarian. “We’ve had our wars too, you know.”
“How long ago was the last one?”
“A thousand years, give or take a century.”
A thousand years without conflict? The idea was as staggering to Cassie as Tarian’s apparent indifference to centuries. Immortals must judge time differently. “Are things peaceful now?”
“Of course.” Tarian gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Once the realms of Faerie were brought under the sway of a single ruler, the need for conflict ceased.”
“Queen Mab is sole ruler?” Tarian grunted assent. “How long has she been queen?”
“Seventy years.”
Cassie contrasted that titbit of information with Mab’s youthful appearance. “How old is she?”
Tarian thought for a moment. “One hundred and eighty-six.”
Cassie gulped. “And how old are you?”
There was a pause before Tarian answered, and Cassie thought she detected a note of apprehension. “One hundred and fourteen.”
I did ask.
“Does that bother you?”
Cassie twisted around and saw that a crease had appeared between Tarian’s brows. “A little,” she said truthfully. “But I’ll get used to it.” On that she was determined. The crease disappeared. She smiled and faced front once more. “Who ruled before Mab?”
“Her father. And his mother before that.”
“What happened to them? I thought Fae were supposed to live forever.”
“There comes a time, even for immortals, when they grow weary of life,” said Tarian.
“Really? What happens then?” asked Cassie.
“We petition the current King or Queen for release, and if they look kindly on us, they grant that wish.”
Cassie chewed on that unsettling thought as the horse scrambled down the last few feet of incline. “By ‘release’ you mean they unmake you?”
“Yes.”
“But what if Mab herself grows weary? Can she unmake herself?”
“No. That is why one day she must create an heir. The power to unmake runs only in the direct royal bloodline.”
The implications were staggering. “Are you saying that Mab unmade her own father?”
“Her mother too. It is common for couples that love one another to petition for simultaneous release. My
own parents made just such a petition, and I witnessed the granting of it.”
Tarian sounded unperturbed, but Cassie could not say she felt the same. To witness the death of your parents, and, in Mab’s case, to kill them yourself. My God! The Fae are made of stern stuff.
The horses reached the bottom at last, and Cassie let out a sigh of relief. The dogs rose and came to greet them, tails wagging. Tarian let the stallion and mare catch their breath and crop a juicy patch of grass, before urging them on once more.
“Where exactly are we going?” asked Cassie.
“The manor house.” Tarian adjusted her grip around Cassie’s waist.
They followed the track past the water mill and skirted the hamlet beyond it, where a Fae woman hanging washing on a line regarded them with a curious stare. They were seeing more and more Fae about. Cassie had only encountered nobles and livery-clad servants, and she was surprised to see Fae labouring in the fields and smallholdings, looking like peasants in their sweat-stained tunics and breeches.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why work so hard when you can do things by magic?”
“They’re lesser Fae,” said Tarian, as though that should be explanation enough.
Cassie worked it out. “They can’t cast spells?”
“Only weak ones, such as producing Fae light.”
That must put them at a disadvantage. “Do they own their own land?”
“Of course not. Those aren’t their houses either.” Tarian sounded surprised, and Cassie twisted round to see her face. “As tenants, they must pay their lord or lady for the cottage and the land that comes with it with their labour and loyalty.”
“But that’s Medieval,” said Cassie.
“It has always been this way,” said Tarian, indifferent. “Nobles rule; the lesser Fae serve them.”
“Why can’t nobles serve themselves?”
“Magic has its limits and its costs.” Blue eyes pinned her. “You’ve seen how a spell backwash affects me. The larger the spell, the worse the drain on its user. It would be foolish to use magic when the lesser Fae can achieve the same end by mundane means. Besides,” Tarian went on, “it would be taking the bread from their mouths. Without employment, they would starve.”
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