“Many thanks, my lady.”
***
They had hardly walked for five minutes when Aidan spoke.
“Doesn’t this look familiar?”
Gwen looked more closely at their surroundings. The path was usable, but hardly the well-maintained trail of their previous visit. Vines hung in spindly tendrils to brush their shoulders, and large tree branches lay on the ground to catch unwary feet, as Gwen’s feet so often were.
“Yeah, that bent tree over there—maybe we’re near?”
Corann snorted but said nothing. He kicked a tree branch off the path as if the immobile wood had done him a great wrong.
They turned a corner into an open clearing. It must have been the site of some potent act of destruction in the past, from the evidence of blackened bark and jagged stumps. A thick carpet of dying grass, the first to colonize the stricken ground, lay draped over discarded branches and against the remains of trees. The devastation spread in a wide circle.
Gwen gulped.
“We’re almost there. This is where I broke open my core.”
Aidan whistled softly and even Bran looked up from his dragging feet with interest.
Everything looked dead, especially in the autumnal air, crisp with an undertone of chill dankness that warned of approaching winter. The dead grass rustled under falling leaves, its brittle brown forms making only the slightest sound in the stillness. Gwen listened carefully, but there was no birdsong or any sign of movement in the surrounding forest. In fact, she couldn’t recall hearing any animals since the owl at the portal.
“Enjoying the view, Gwendolyn?” Corann spat out with venom. “This was just practice before your big debut.”
Corann’s vitriol was wearing thin.
“Just take me to Isolde,” Gwen said shortly.
Corann glared at her, then turned on one heel and marched down the path once more. Gwen adjusted Bran’s arm securely around her shoulder and the three of them hobbled after Corann.
Two bends in the path later, the trees parted just enough to allow a castle to emerge from the gloom.
Gwen gasped, and blinked a few times to make sure her vision was true. Now that only one forest was visible, without the enchantments of darkness and terror or the improvements of Isolde’s magic, the castle appeared as its true self. Unfortunately, the reality was much closer to the terrible ruin of the enchanted forest than it was to the decorated bastion of Isolde’s creation. Some of the crenelated towers had hardly any crenellations left to boast of. Three of the domed and spired peaks had disintegrated completely, their remains scattered over the front steps and around the castle walls. Large sections of wall were simply gone, and Gwen wondered queasily what supported the ruined towers above. The doors to the ballroom through which light and music used to spill were silent and dark now. They were open, the empty blackness inside ominous and forbidding.
Gwen swallowed. What was Isolde doing here in this deathtrap of a building? And was all this really Gwen’s fault? Her stomach twisted into great ropy knots and she gripped Bran’s waist tightly.
“Easy there, Gwen,” Bran said with a reassuring smile in his voice. “You’ll cut me in half.”
Corann picked his way up the crumbling steps, skirting chunks of castle wall. Gwen glanced at Aidan, who reached up from his grip on Bran to squeeze her shoulder.
“Come on, let’s see what all the fuss is about. Then we can be off and take Bran home.”
Gwen nodded tightly. They followed Corann’s retreating figure, avoiding the boulders with difficulty.
The ballroom was so dark that Corann’s footsteps on the parquet floor echoed in Gwen’s ears long before her eyes adjusted to the dimness. The only light came from the great double doors, streaming over and around their bodies which cast long shadows over the dusty floor. Tapestries swam into view before Gwen’s blinking eyes. One to her left, which depicted a hunting scene with humans as prey, was riddled with moth holes so she could hardly make out the scene. It was an improvement, to Gwen’s mind.
“Look,” Aidan whispered. “There’s the queen.”
Gwen whipped her head around to look past Aidan’s outstretched finger. On a dais at the far end of the ballroom was a carved wooden seat, almost a throne. And on the throne sat Isolde.
Gwen’s heart squeezed painfully and unexpectedly at the sight of her mother. The last time Gwen had seen her, Isolde had been elegant, proud, beautiful, and larger-than-life. Now—Gwen swallowed as she dragged Bran forward, Aidan following after an initial surprised stumble—now Isolde sank low in her chair, her head bowed as if under a great weight. Her dress might have been an emerald green in the past, but its ragged hem and drooping sleeves were now no more than a faded and dusty brown. Even Isolde’s raven tresses hung limply, covered in a layer of dust so thick that Gwen at first mistook it for graying hair.
Corann knelt beside Isolde. He took her hand and gently stroked the lifeless fingers.
“My lady? You have a visitor.” There was no response from the queen’s bowed head. “My lady? Will you not rouse yourself? Please, my love?” Gwen bit her lip at the tender anguish in Corann’s words, and she and Aidan exchanged a glance. Corann tried again. “My love, your daughter has come. Your daughter, Gwendolyn.”
These words stirred what Corann’s tender pleading could not. Isolde’s head rose—slowly, so slowly—until her half-closed eyes focused on Gwen. Corann’s lips pressed in a thin line and he glared at Gwen. Isolde’s mouth opened slightly to draw in a long, shuddering breath.
“Gwendolyn.” Her voice was deep and raspy, obviously unused for some time. “You have come.”
“What happened to you?” Gwen blurted without thinking, then pressed her lips shut tight. She hadn’t meant to be so blunt, but the state of Isolde had rattled her.
Isolde raised her hand slowly, as if with great effort, and waved away Gwen’s question.
“I am a little ill. It is nothing of consequence.” Isolde put her hand on Corann’s arm when he opened his mouth in protest and he subsided with a furrowed brow. Gwen was puzzled, but had more pressing concerns.
“What’s the matter with the forest? Why has it changed so much?” Gwen followed this with the question that she dreaded, but needed to ask. “Was it my fault?”
Isolde gazed at her for a long while. The tightened knuckles of Aidan’s hand pressed against Gwen’s side where he clenched Bran. Finally, Isolde spoke into the stillness of Gwen’s held breath.
“The lack of new creative talent for my ballroom resulted in an unraveling of the realm’s magic. I cannot keep it together without the humans.”
“So it was my doing,” Gwen whispered. She closed her eyes briefly, remembering all too clearly the children on the path, their eyes large above too-thin cheeks. Isolde continued to gaze at her, her face emotionless.
“If we could go back,” Gwen said. “And do it again, would you have given me the locket?”
Isolde considered her for a moment.
“I do not know,” she said finally. “I expect I would not have given you the chance to ask for it. But the point is moot. The locket is gone,” Bran squirmed briefly against Gwen’s side. “And events have unfolded as they will. The realm is fading, and there is little I can do for it.” She turned her head to one side and Corann stroked her arm in consolation. He glared at Gwen and reflexively twitched his fingers as if he itched to attack them.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Gwen said. Aidan sighed almost indiscernibly and she bristled. This was all her fault—if there was something she could do to help, then she would. Aidan didn’t have to join her. She wasn’t forcing him to do anything.
Isolde tilted her head in consideration. Gwen wondered if the creak she heard was from Isolde’s neck or from the trees outside.
“There is a place. An island that houses extraordinary magic, perhaps even the power to heal all ills.”
“Are you referring to Isle Caengal?” Corann asked incredulously. “The isle is real, but the spells ar
e only legend.”
“Perhaps. And yet, if the isle does hold that legendary spell of restoration, the realm could be healed. There is a chance, however small. Likely it is the only chance.”
The silence was so thick that Gwen could almost taste it. She chewed the inside of her cheek, her mind whirling. Another task was just what they didn’t need right now. They still had to transport an ever-weakening Bran to his home, and Gwen had only a week before her father would start to get frantic. But people were starving and dying because of Gwen, and if there were something she could do to make amends, how could she in good conscience pass it up?
“I’ll try,” Gwen said aloud. That was the best she could offer—she didn’t want to make promises she probably wouldn’t be able to keep. “I’ll try to get the restoration spell from this island and bring it to you. As soon as we take Bran back to his father.”
Isolde tried to smile. It looked difficult on her dry and dusty skin.
“Thank you, Gwendolyn. You have a noble heart.” She transferred her gaze to Bran, his body drooping between their arms. “What ails the young Wintertree prince?”
“He used too much magic and made himself very sick,” Gwen said, shifting her aching arm to support Bran better. “We’re taking him to his father to be healed.”
“Oh. Well, I would say your goodbyes soon. He will not be long for this world.” Isolde’s head started to drop, as if its weight were too much for her neck to support any longer. “Faolan is particularly adept at magic, but I doubt even he can stop an illness such as this.”
Gwen glanced at Aidan and saw her own distress mirrored in his eyes.
“Corann, tell them where to go. I am—I am too tired.” Isolde’s arms fell to her lap and her head sank fully to her chest. Corann’s lips tightened, but he turned and spoke to Gwen in terse, clipped words.
“Go to the shores of the eastern sea, on the edge of the Longshore realm. There is an island within sight of the shore that is rumored to be Isle Caengal from legends, although no one has set foot on it in living memory. Take the eastern path leaving the castle—it will lead you to Faolan’s realm. Now go. The queen is tired.”
Corann turned his back to them deliberately and faced Isolde on his knees to reach for her ringed fingers. Isolde didn’t stir.
Feeling dismissed, and not sure what more she would accomplish by forcing Isolde to speak to them further, Gwen looked at Aidan and twitched her head to leave. They hobbled out, and Gwen looked back just once at her motionless mother on the dusty carved throne.
***
The echoing footsteps, four strong and sure, two slow and hesitant, had long since faded into the empty stillness that settled over the ballroom as thick as dust by the time Corann spoke.
“You didn’t tell her.” His thumbs, hardly visible in the dim light from the open door, stroked the back of Isolde’s hand with a gentle touch. “Why not?”
Without raising her head, Isolde answered Corann. Her whispered breath registered scarcely louder than the flutter of a bird’s wingbeat.
“What would it have achieved? If she cares for me, the knowledge would be a burden. If she does not, knowing would make no difference.” There was silence between them for a long moment before Corann spoke again.
“This can’t go on. The realm and—well, it’s all falling apart. I don’t know how much longer we have.”
“Perhaps Gwendolyn will be able to help. She is our only chance now.”
Corann exhaled loudly in annoyance.
“I think Gwendolyn has done quite enough already.” A pause, then, “There has to be something I can do. I can’t watch this happen. Tell me what to do.” Corann’s eyes were intense, raking over Isolde’s bowed head. Isolde’s sigh passed through the air like wind rustling through dry grass.
“There is nothing. The magic and the realm were too closely intertwined. Unraveling the two is not possible.”
Corann’s jaw tightened and his eyes flashed.
“I don’t accept that.”
Isolde partially raised her head and slowly, so slowly, lifted her hand to touch Corann’s cheek with light fingertips. She smiled sadly.
“But you must.”
Corann looked away and did not answer. Isolde dropped her head with a sigh and allowed the silence to swallow them once more.
Chapter 5
Gwen stumbled alongside Aidan and the faltering Bran for some minutes, guilt and fear silencing her. Guilt, now that Isolde had confirmed that the destruction of the realm was all her fault. Fear, because saving the realm meant traveling through the Otherworld, the sometimes vicious, always unpredictable land of her mother’s people. What was worse, to reach this legendary island they needed to pass through other realms. Gwen shivered. As unwelcoming and dangerous as Isolde’s realm was, at least she felt some familiarity with it. Beyond these borders lay a treacherous unknown.
Bran made a valiant effort to shuffle from the castle in the direction of his realm, but after a short time he stumbled to his knees, dragging Gwen and Aidan’s shoulders down with him.
“Bran!” Gwen knelt down beside him. He started to shake, then to cough uncontrollably, the air in front of his mouth filled with sparks of every color. Gwen held his shoulders steady and looked helplessly at Aidan. When the coughing fit finally subsided, Bran sagged against Gwen.
“All right. Let’s take a little rest, shall we?” Aidan said. He hauled Bran up, grimacing at Bran’s unresisting weight. Gwen ran to the side of the path and cleared branches from the base of a tree. Aidan carefully placed the limp Bran there and Gwen balled up her coat to tuck behind Bran’s head.
“Just rest here for a minute, okay?” Gwen said, rubbing Bran’s shoulder. He nodded without opening his eyes. Aidan dug out a water bottle from his pack and offered it to Gwen. She gratefully accepted it—the coolness of the night hadn’t diminished the thirst their walk had generated.
“What are we going to do?” Aidan said, his voice neutral. Gwen passed the bottle back and looked at him. He avoided her gaze and took a swig.
“I need to fix this.” Gwen gestured at the forest, where mists swirled around the darkening tree trunks. “The realm is failing, and it’s my fault.”
Aidan sighed.
“It’s not your fault. Isolde set up this ridiculous magic defense system, and she gave you the locket. She knew exactly what would happen if she did. You can’t blame yourself.”
Gwen could, and she did—she had made Isolde give her the locket. People were starving and dying in consequence of an action she had wrought.
“If I don’t fix it, people will continue to die.”
“Is it really up to you? What about others in the realm? This world is dangerous, and we know hardly anything about it. There are raiders and wild animals and who knows what else. We don’t know what we’re doing.”
Gwen stared at Aidan, uncertainty quickly overtaken by frustration. Why couldn’t he see that there wasn’t another option? That she had to do this, or at least try?
“You don’t have to come,” she said, annoyed. “It’s not your responsibility.”
Aidan frowned and closed his eyes briefly.
“I’m coming. I won’t leave you here on your own. But—just think about it, all right? And try not to let guilt cloud your judgement.” He bent down and shoved the water bottle into the pack with more force than necessary. “Come on, we should move, cover a little more distance before we stop for the night.”
Gwen shouldered her own pack while Aidan helped Bran up. Her mind buzzed with irritation. Why didn’t Aidan get it? Couldn’t he see that the responsibility for these people had fallen to her shoulders with a few quiet words from Isolde? That her actions had huge and far-reaching consequences? That no white knight would come to save the day, that it was only her, shaking and afraid under the misty trees? Only her, feeling very alone in the face of Aidan’s incomprehension?
She followed Bran and Aidan down the narrow path, dusk reducing the light until tree roots
blended unhelpfully into the dirt of the trail. Every so often, a prickling sensation traveled down her spine and she whirled around to see nothing but trees. Leaves continued to drift disconsolately around her, floating through the mists in a melancholic mirror of Gwen’s own mood.
“Ugh! I’m sick of this forest. It’s so dark and creepy.” Gwen kicked at a pile of leaves, her frustration with Aidan and the forest melding together into one bundle of annoyance and anxiety.
“We should stop for the night,” Aidan said, his voice calm and measured. Gwen thought irritably that he spoke to her as if she were a wild animal, ready to bite him unless he calmed her down. Just because he was a little bit right didn’t make the feeling any easier to swallow. He continued, “It’s too dark to see, anyway. Let’s get out the sleeping bags.”
Gwen bent over her pack, but before her hand reached the zipper a tingling crawled up her spine. She turned her head to look for another presence, but the forest was still. The dimness swallowed up distant trees when she tried to peer beyond their immediate surroundings.
“What’s the matter?” Bran asked. His half-open eyes were on her, sleepy but curious. She shrugged.
“It felt like someone was watching us. I’m just being silly, I guess.” She zipped open her backpack with a defiant gesture, but froze when a deep rumbling growl reached her ears. She looked back at Bran, whose widened eyes stared past her. She jerked around to face the growl.
Pacing toward them through the gloom was a tremendous lion, just like the one they had seen on their first visit to the Otherworld. Its curly mane and odd, almost human face grew more distinct as it padded straight to them on silent footfalls. But there was a peculiar, almost translucent quality to the lion—the fur on its flanks rippled out of time with its steps, as if the lion was a reflection rippling in water, rather than the real thing. Gwen’s terror did not agree and she remained frozen, panicked, with no idea what to do or any plan in her head. The lion growled again, its voice strangely distant and echoing.
Breenan Series Box Set Page 28