This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
REALM OF THE FORGOTTEN
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2018 Emma Shelford
Cover design by Christien Gilston
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
www.emmashelford.com
First edition: May 2018
ISBN: 978-1986646260
For Ronya,
for the gift of time
Chapter 1
The moon burned with a cold and pale intensity, mirrored in a frozen puddle. Bare linden trees sent twisted shadows across a narrow, paved road through a small wood. A badger snuffled nearby, but silence reigned with its departure.
A soft ripping sound emerged in the nighttime stillness. It would have sounded like the finest gossamer fabric being rent in two, had anyone been around to hear it. A hole in the fabric of the world appeared in the shadows of a tall linden. Long strips of existence hung from the opening. There were more trees on the other side, trees that were dense and covered in a thick layer of snow, which only accentuated the darkness of their massive trunks.
A breeze wafted through the still night. The torn strips fluttered, attracting a passing cat. The cat stopped, and its hackles rose. When it detected no threat, it paced forward and batted at the ragged pieces. A moment’s indecision, and then the cat leaped nimbly through the hole.
Silence fell once more. A car passed on a distant road. Moments stretched into minutes in the darkness.
A howl pierced the night through the opening. Seconds later, the cat shot out of the hole. It hissed and spat as it barreled down the road and out of sight. Another howl disturbed the darkness.
***
Queen Isolde of the Velvet Woods sat on a velvet-covered stool before her gilded vanity and sighed in contentment.
“The dancing was divine tonight. Lord Connell has such grace and poise—we’re fortunate he chose to join us for the solstice festivities.” She pulled off her earrings, then leaned her head forward to expose her neck. “Unclasp my necklace, please, darling.”
“Of course.” Corann, Isolde’s advisor and consort, stood from his seat on the bed and fiddled with the clasp. The necklace of garnets slithered down Isolde’s throat and landed in her waiting hands. Corann stroked the back of Isolde’s neck lightly, and she smiled into the mirror at the dark-haired man behind her.
Corann looked more closely at Isolde. She was thinner than usual, her high cheekbones even more distinct, but perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight.
“Has the kitchen completed their plans for the confectionary? I gave them my instructions yesterday, but they must decide upon details.” She pulled three long hairpins of polished bone out of her hair, and black locks cascaded down her back. The white strands at her temple flowed thicker than ever. “I have a vision of merengue swans floating down an icy waterfall of spun sugar.”
“I’m sure it will be stunning,” said Corann. He lay his hands on her shoulders. Under the silk of her plum-colored gown, her body trembled.
“Why are you shaking?” he asked. “Do you feel poorly?”
“I’m fine, my love.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Never better.”
Corann frowned but let the matter slide.
“Shall we have an outing tomorrow at the winter pavilion?” Isolde said. “If we tell the servants now, there will be enough time to prepare overnight. The pavilion is so dazzling in the snow, with a roaring fire in the hearth and boughs of winter ivy strung throughout.”
“Perhaps.” Corann traced Isolde’s collarbone with one finger. This was no trick of the light—Isolde’s bone stood out sharply from the sunken flesh surrounding it.
“Have you given any more thought to replacing the restoration spell’s magic?” he asked.
“That’s a weighty topic before bed.” Isolde picked up a boar-bristle brush and pulled it through her hair.
“We must discuss it sometime. The spell powers the realm entirely. But it won’t last forever, and we need an alternative defense for the realm.”
“Yes, yes.” Isolde looked annoyed. “It must be dealt with one day. But it’s not necessary to implement that sort of upheaval now, not when the realm is functioning so smoothly.”
Corann’s voice held a bite of impatience.
“That day will come sooner than you think. What about having a reserve army, as the Wintertree realm does?”
“And what will I give this army? Faolan has far more resources than I do.”
“What about the eternal song of the Whitecliff realm? Their magical defense is powered by the continuous singing of a rotation of their realm’s inhabitants.”
“And they train their children from birth to sing sweetly enough for the magic to properly coalesce. No, singing won’t do.”
“What about―” Corann started, but Isolde cut him off.
“We won’t resolve this tonight. Let the restoration spell do its work, and I’ll worry about the next steps when I need to.”
“But―”
“Leave it, Corann.” Isolde’s voice was firm but kindly. “Don’t trouble yourself over difficulties that do not exist yet.” She put down her hair brush. “Did you see Lady Alanna’s gown? I thought the color very fine, although the cut did nothing for her figure.”
Corann turned his face away from the mirror to hide his expression of mutinous frustration. When he had mastered his emotions, he turned back with a forced smile.
“Indeed. If you’ll excuse me, my lady, there is something I must attend to.”
He bowed stiffly at Isolde’s back and fled the room before Isolde could respond. She turned and stared, open-mouthed, after Corann.
***
Gwen Cooper leaned back into the tweed couch with a sigh and slid off the hair elastic that fastened the end of her long braid, colorful blue strands nestled in the black tresses. Her father Alan settled comfortably beside her.
“It was a long flight, but food did wonders,” he said. “Thanks for the delicious dinner, Aunty Ada. You outdid yourself.”
Gwen’s great-aunt, seated in a wingback chair beside the crackling fire, clucked at her nephew. She looked over her gold-rimmed glasses and arched a penciled eyebrow from under tight iron-gray curls.
“Hardly. You flew halfway around the world to visit me. The least I could do was toss a roast in the oven.” She smiled to soften her words.
“Yes, thanks, Aunty Ada,” Gwen said. “Tasting your food reminds me of how limited my own cooking skills are. Now that I’ve moved out of the house, my menu is pretty boring.”
“That’s no good. I’ll give you a few lessons while you’re here for the holidays,” Ada said kindly. “Although, I do admit it’s difficult to bother cooking for one. Ever since Gerald died in September, well…” Her normally strong voice trailed off, until she said firmly, “I can’t cook for a husband anymore, but cooking for company is even more pleasurable. You’re more complimentary, for one. The old sod loved to gripe about my scrambled eggs.”
Alan chuckled.
“I’m happy to eat anything and everything you cook. I’m glad we could reconnect, even if it took a funeral to finally make Christmas plans.”
“Hey, Aunty Ada and I had a nice visit in May, remember?” Gwen said in protest. “I’m far more social than you, apparently.”
“So you did, so you did,” Alan said. “You’re more social than your grandmother, at any rate.”
“Now, now, no need to point fingers at those who can’t be here to defend themselves. My sister, bless her soul, was no great shakes at correspondence, but then neither was I.” Ada leaned forward to place a new log on the f
ire. “No point in regretting the past. But Gwen, dear, you were here in August as well, do you recall? What was that for, again?”
“Umm.” Gwen glanced at her dad. The real reason for her summer visit had been because her Breenan friend Bran had magically pulled her to England from her home in Vancouver. “I was helping my boyfriend Aidan pack. He moved to Vancouver in September for school.”
“That’s right.” Ada settled back in her chair. “He must be a hopeless romantic, to move across the globe for love.”
Gwen laughed at this description of Aidan. She couldn’t envision him writing soppy love poems for her, despite how tight-knit they had become. This past term had been blissful with Aidan so close—she really knew him now, and could only laugh at her past self, so nervous about their relationship’s future.
“He came for the music program. It wasn’t just for me. He’s doing really well—I went to a recital and was really impressed.”
“Hmm,” said Ada in a knowing tone, but she left it at that. “And do you and your father have any plans to sightsee while you’re here? The weather is terrible, unfortunately, so you’ll have to make the best of it. The university’s drama school is putting on their annual Christmas panto in a few days—you might want to take it in.”
“That’s a good idea,” Alan said with a yawn. “Not too much tomorrow for me. Maybe a walk, Gwennie?”
“Sounds nice. Let’s do it in the afternoon—I said I’d meet up with Aidan in the morning.”
“That’s right, you mentioned his mother lives near here,” said Ada. “What was her name again?”
“Deirdre Lynch. She’s a nurse.”
“Hmm. I don’t believe I’ve met her.” Ada sat up straight in her chair and pierced Gwen and Alan with her hazel eyes over narrow glasses. “Take care on your walk, you two. There have been reports of wild animals lurking in back gardens. Really nasty ones. The word wolf has been bandied about, but it’s far more likely that some large dogs have gone feral than wolves have recovered from extinction. All the same, keep a sharp eye.”
“Thanks for the warning,” said Alan, his jaw cracking in another huge yawn. “A mauling is not what I want for Christmas. Boy, I’m beat. I think I’ll turn in now.”
“I’ll retire also,” said Ada. “Your beds should be made.”
“Thanks, Aunty Ada. Coming, Gwen?”
“If it’s all right, I might watch some TV before I turn in.”
***
Gwen was a strange mix of exhausted and wired, as if her limp brain had been pulsed with a jolt of electricity. She stared at the remote for a minute, then pushed buttons at random until the television flickered on. A talking head in a navy-blue suit monologued in a soothing British accent about local politics. Gwen switched the channel and fiddled with a locket around her neck absently. She had asked her Breenan mother, Isolde, to give her the locket after learning that Isolde could use the magic within it to create portals and kidnap humans. She had taken to wearing it ever since her last visit to the Otherworld in August—its small weight on her chest somehow felt right. Aidan had laughed in disbelief at that, and she couldn’t explain it. Flick, flick, she needed something brainless, not news nor some complicated drama series, flick, flick…
A reality game show flickered onto the television. Gwen stopped pressing buttons and settled into the cushions. It was a dance competition show—Gwen remembered vaguely that it was called Dance Till You Drop, or at least the American version was—and the contestants were garbed in excessively bright costumes, gamely stepping to the beat. Gwen figured it must be season eleven by now.
Gwen’s eyes glazed over, and she let the colors assault her brain in a blur. Hopefully this would calm her body enough to sleep.
After a few minutes of flailing limbs and pounding feet, the show cut to a backstage shot. The contestants were in a large dance studio practicing moves under the watchful eye of their instructor. He was a slight man with sharp features, in his late thirties, and his hair was as dark as Gwen’s own. He was dressed in tight-fitting pants and a sleeveless top that exposed toned biceps and much of his shoulders. The man turned to comment on a pair of dancers near him, and Gwen blinked in surprise. She sat up.
On the man’s left shoulder, in precisely the same spot as on Gwen’s own, a green tattoo sprawled. She stared for a moment to make sure she wasn’t mistaken, then she fumbled for her phone.
“Aidan!” she said when he answered. “Turn on the TV. Channel 16. Quick!”
“Uh, all right.” Gwen heard him scrambling in the background, then the sound of the television. “It’s on. What was so urgent about watching Dance Till You Drop? If you’re a closet super-fan, we might have to reconsider our relationship.”
“No, of course not. Look at the black-haired instructor. Do you see? On his shoulder?”
Aidan waited until the man turned. His shoulder was clearly visible for a moment, and Aidan drew in his breath sharply.
“You saw it, right?” Gwen said. Her heart pounded fiercely. So much for calming down before sleep.
“Yeah,” Aidan breathed. “He’s a Breenan.”
They watched the man in silence for a few more moments. A commercial broke their trance.
“Do you know what episode this is?” Aidan asked.
“Not a clue.”
“All right, hold on a minute.”
Gwen heard the click-tapping of a computer keyboard. She frowned, and her tired brain tried to process this information. There were more Breenan living in the human world? Was this man full Breenan or half? How many tattoos lay hidden under shirt collars and long sleeves?
“I have it.” Aidan said with repressed excitement. “I have his name. It’s Finn Sayward.”
“What? That was quick.” Gwen shifted on the couch. “Now what?”
“Hold on.” More tapping, then Aidan said, “I have his home address. It’s in the outskirts of London. Are you busy tomorrow?”
“What? You want to just turn up on his doorstep?”
“Why not? He’s the first Breenan we’ve seen here. Aren’t you curious what his story is?”
“Well, sure, but…”
“Come on, Gwen. Let’s do it. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning?”
The show was running once more, and Gwen stared at the face of the unknown Breenan man. Who was he? A wave of curiosity threatened to overwhelm her. She gripped the phone tightly.
“Okay. I’ll be ready at ten.”
***
Gwen peered out of the windshield, then again at her phone.
“The map says we’re close,” she said. “Hey, if you turn left here, I think it’s a shortcut.”
“All right.” Aidan started to turn, then swerved sharply forward again. “One way. We’ll have to take the long way.”
“What are we going to say to him?” Gwen tapped her fingers nervously on the armrest. “Do we come about it roundabout? Or ask straight up?”
“Nice to meet you. Lovely day. Are you from another world?” Aidan leaned his head on the headrest contemplatively. “I don’t see how else to do it.”
“What if we ask him if he believes in…” Gwen trailed off. Believe in what? Magic? Faeries? Parallel universes?
“We’ll have to play it by ear. Where do I turn?”
“Just up here.”
Gwen wrung her hands together as Aidan slowed to a stop outside a row of townhouses. Steps led up to black doors, each with a tarnished number in the center.
“Number forty-five, there it is,” Gwen said quietly. They sat in silence for a minute. Aidan broke the stillness.
“Come on, he won’t bite.” A frown crossed his features. “I don’t know, perhaps he will. He could be a raving lunatic, for all we know. Bodies in the basement.”
Gwen swatted his arm.
“Now you’re just bugging me. Let’s get this over with.”
Gwen opened the car door and stood, enjoying the stretch in her cramped legs. Short steps led to the front door, which loomed abo
ve her. She mentally shook herself and marched toward the stairs.
Halfway up, Aidan grabbed her arm.
“Look, a neighbor,” he hissed, then raised his voice. “Good morning.”
A man holding a paper bag of groceries on the next-door steps turned their way. A small boy wearing a green knitted hat peered out from behind his legs.
“Morning.” He shifted the groceries to one arm.
“We’re looking for Finn Sayward. Do you know if this is the right address?”
“That’s the one. Finn’s lived there for ages, since before we moved in, and we’ve been here for almost five years.” The neighbor nodded.
Gwen wasn’t sure if she felt relieved or anxious that this was the right place.
“Know him well?” Aidan asked.
“Can’t say that I do. Are you friends of his?” The neighbor looked momentarily suspicious.
“Distant relations,” Gwen said after a pause. The man relaxed.
“Well, I don’t know if anyone really knows him well. Never seen any family, nor friends neither. He’s a nice enough bloke but keeps himself to himself. Not what you’d call chatty.” He ruffled the boy’s hair absentmindedly when the boy plucked at his coat.
“I’m glad we came, then,” said Aidan. “It sounds as if he could use some Christmas cheer.”
“I reckon he could. If he’s not at home, try the White Hart, the pub on the next street.” He pointed down the road. “He’s often there. They serve a nice meat pie, if you’re hungry. Happy Christmas to you.”
“And to you,” said Aidan. The man nodded and slid his key into the lock. The boy stared at them through the doorway as the door closed.
Aidan lifted his fist to the door.
“Ready?” he asked Gwen, who nodded. Aidan rapped smartly on the black paint.
A silent minute passed. Aidan knocked again, louder this time. Nothing stirred.
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