Bespelled: A Fae Fantasy Romance (Fae Magic Book 5)

by Jessica Aspen

  It could have been minutes or hours or days. Even years.

  As soon as she had the serious thought that it must be getting late and she should leave the party, someone would drag her back into the dance. Or over to the refreshments.

  And that would be that. She’d go whirling off in another masked partner’s arms. Or drink some more wine. Or lose herself licking the cream from the center of a tea cake.

  As she watched the fairies float off into the trees to join the other lights twinkling in the leaves, she had the nebulous thought that she should be doing something else. That she had a life somewhere, where she did something besides dance and laugh and drink.

  But concentrating on anything was too much work and she let the thought go, instead taking the hand of a man with legs like a goat and the brawny chest of a wrestler, his face hidden behind a golden mask. And she was off, only to be lost in the dance yet again.

  IT TOOK THREE DAYS and three nights riding through a series of fixed gates disguised as standing stones for Ardan to arrive on the far eastern edge of the Golden King’s demesne. And it would have taken longer, but he was riding Triton, the fae steed Aoife had given him at the beginning of his quest. Despite the Lady Aoife’s ulterior motives in giving him the gifts, he’d never have made it this far without both Triton and the sword, Gleam. Faster, stronger, able to withstand the mists of the space between worlds, fae steeds were highly valued. And after ten months riding Triton, Ardan could see why.

  There were no guards here on the edge of the wild lands. Nothing but trees, and rocks, and trails of the mist that could become anything, if one were not careful. No one ventured here unless they were crazy, or strong in magic. Or both. And even those would need to be vigilant.

  “Well, Triton. There’s nothing for it. The lodestone points straight into the forest.”

  He’d ridden past the last of the village on the edge of the king’s lands and now the wide fields were gone. The path had narrowed into a strip of dirt, first surrounded by dense overgrowth, and now trees, the fog filling in any gaps.

  As he rode, the trees grew taller and older, their girths wider than any trees he’d ever seen in his life. Wider than two men could reach around, maybe three. When he’d first gone on this quest the lands down here, with their dense forests, had given him claustrophobia. Up north, they only had spindly pines and wide open spaces of scrubby short plants. The mountains were clear and cool, and if you wanted to see for miles, you simply climbed the nearest one. But as he’d ridden further south everything had become dense and overgrown. Ardan missed the north where you could see your enemy coming.

  Triton bobbed his head, his white ears flicking back and forth.

  Ardan took that as agreement. “Into the forest we go then.” He squeezed his legs and they moved on. The path dropped down a steep hill and as the first of the wild mists brushed the lower part of Triton’s knees, he tried to keep his thoughts as bland as possible.

  The mists of Underhill were pure magic, floating in the wide unpopulated lands beyond the courts. They were dangerous for anyone with magical abilities, waiting for a stray thought to form into whatever fears you carried with you. And even worse for anyone without magic.

  It would be just his luck to let his thoughts stray and create a second Black Queen while looking for the first. It was tough enough looking for the queen. Prince Kian swore she was dead, killed in battle in the Summer Palace ballroom. But Ardan’s benefactress, the Lady Aoife, swore she was alive, that she’d found evidence of her power and destruction.

  The queen was unique among the fae. She could change into more than one person, and it wasn’t a glamour. All three aspects were real and touchable. The one that had died was the Morrigan. A black-haired witchy woman whose skull necklace chattered and wailed while she used her powers to kill anyone who threatened her person. But that wasn’t the Black Queen’s most feared aspect.

  Ardan shivered and zipped up his leather jacket.

  No, the most feared was the Crone. Or at least he’d been told. When she appeared, even the fiercest of the courts ran for cover. But neither she nor the beauteous red-headed Aeval had been seen since the queen’s death.

  And since they’d only had one aspect, the Morrigan, out of the three to burn, there was room for doubt. Or at least the Lady Aoife insisted there was. No one else had even considered that the Black Queen might have survived. Burning a body was usually enough evidence of death.

  Maybe this was a fool’s errand. Maybe he’d spent too much time living in chain mail, losing too much sleep on the ground eating camp food. Maybe he was chasing a ghost.

  He’d been up and down the edges of the war between Prince Kian and the queen’s former advisor Lord Haddon, who now held the Black Court, and Ardan had never caught even a glimpse of the Crone. Or a red-headed woman who even came close to holding the power of a queen.

  And he knew how powerful a woman had to be to hold a court. He shivered at the memory of Maeve, the White Queen. The woman who had plucked him as a boy from his village and used him and abused him, until he’d grown up and become too old for her tastes. Maeve had been powerful, she’d almost tingled when he’d touched her. And by all accounts, Aeval, the Black Queen, was more powerful still.

  Triton picked his way between the boulders and down into a crevice, deeper into the fog. Ardan’s mind wandered.

  For a while he’d followed the whispers about a woman with black curly hair and an appetite for murder and mayhem. She sounded more like the queen, and the traces of power she left gave him the shivers. But he’d never caught up to her. He’d only seen the devastation of her magic as she traveled deeper and deeper into King Oberon’s lands. And as the months ticked down, Ardan had grown desperate.

  Mind unfocused, thinking over and over what and where he could have done differently, he stopped paying attention. The mists thickened, rising up into the trees. Soon, he couldn’t see beyond a few feet ahead of Triton’s white muzzle. Their pace slowed as the path became rocky and Triton rounded a large boulder.

  A foggy shape, curved like a woman with long hair, waited just beyond the curve of the trail. She reached out, misty fingers stretching longer than they should. Triton shied and Ardan fought for balance. Curbing his first instinct to pull his sword, he instead tightened his magical shields. He reached for memories of the cool fields of ice surrounding his northern home, desperately driving all thoughts of the Black Queen from his mind.

  Ice. Cold. Winter.

  The figure shivered. She drew a shawl around bent shoulders and dissolved back into the fog.

  “That was close.” Triton’s ears flicked back. Ardan patted his shoulder, the warmth of horse and muscle reassuring under his palm.

  “Sorry, old man. Won’t happen again.” He kept his thoughts innocuous and his shields high as they wound deeper between the rocks and into the mist, the sides of the trail getting higher and higher until they rode with the dirt almost touching the sides of Ardan’s feet.

  He pulled Gleam. This was the perfect place for an ambush. Triton would be unable to turn, and the steep rocky path behind them would be nearly impossible for the horse to back up.

  They were well below the edge of the hill when the narrow gully suddenly widened out. Triton slowed to a halt and the mist that had been trailing around the steed’s hooves and pooling around the bushes, disappeared. Here, the land ran low and easy through a valley filled with dried fall grasses, then it stopped abruptly. Ardan gazed in awe at the thread of trail disappearing into a massive bright green hedge stretching fifty yards up to the sky and bristling with thorns.

  Every soldier’s instinct he had went on alert and he sent out a questing tendril of magic to scout the area.

  Someone powerful had spent time here. Enough time that the wild mists had yet to take back the valley. There was the faint taste of strong magic in the air, but it was stale and, try as he might, he couldn’t find traces that anyone had been here in a year or two. Maybe longer. His shoulders sag
ged in disappointment.

  If the Black Queen had ever been here, she was certainly gone now.

  He pulled out the glass ball and checked for direction. The lodestone pointed straight into the hedge, its needle unwaveringly still. He urged Triton closer. About a dozen feet from the greenery the steed dug in his hooves and refused to get any closer. Ardan examined the hedge carefully.

  Higher than the sides of the hills that formed the steep valley walls and thicker than the forest just behind him, the thorns were each the size of a butcher knife, their gleaming points just as sharp. His shoulders sank. He’d put all of his last efforts into the lodestone and it had led him here. He had nowhere else to turn, this was his last shot.

  He straightened up and lifted his chin. “Nothing for it.”

  Nudging Triton with his knees, he urged him closer to the hedge, but the horse stamped its feet and whinnied, refusing to move. He gave a stronger squeeze. Triton jerked his head from side to side and planted his hooves deep in the overgrown grass.

  “Unbelievable.” Ardan dismounted and gave the stallion a dirty look. “Coward.” Triton bobbed his head in agreement, backed an additional twenty feet away, and dropped his head to graze.

  A cloud scudded across the sky, blocking the sun and the valley grew dark. From his new viewpoint down on the ground the hedge looked even taller, and with the shadows now surrounding it, even more daunting. He wished he dared to use his magic, but after his encounter with the mist woman, he was leery.

  This was the land of imagination and if he wasn’t careful, he could create an entire army. And if by any chance he was wrong and the queen was here, she could take his own creations and turn them on him.

  He’d dealt with powerful queens before, they had no qualms about fighting dirty. No, better to try old-fashioned methods first.

  Stretching out his empty hand, palm up, he created a clear bubble of magic about five inches across. It hovered, waiting for instructions. “Find a way in,” he said and took a deep breath. Letting the breath out, he gave the ball a magical push and blew it off his hand. It took off floating in the air and was soon out of sight, flying at a low altitude and following the perimeter of the wall.

  While it was on its mission, he eased closer to the hedge.

  The outer branches turned towards him as if sentient, each one brandishing its sharp thorn like a knife ready to strike. Sword at the ready he walked along the hedge, staying a couple of feet away. As he passed, the thorns rippled in a wave, keeping their sharp points aimed at him until he’d moved on, keeping him at bay.

  He walked back to where he’d left the horse. “Interesting, don’t you think?”

  Triton ignored him, remaining nose down in the thick yellowed grass.

  From the opposite direction he’d sent it in, the questing globe came flying from around the hedge. Ardan held out his hand and it settled lightly on his left palm.

  “Any luck?” he asked, knowing the answer. It hadn’t changed in color and had obviously made its entire way around without finding an entrance. He dismissed it, and it popped out of existence, leaving him with no answer to his problem other than to hack through the thick wall of branches.

  Unfortunately he didn’t have any other weapons besides his knife and Gleam, and no way of conjuring any. His Gift was for fighting, first and foremost. Leadership. Camaraderie. Scouting. All the things that made a good commander had been Gifted to him by the Winter Queen when she’d increased his magic, drop by drop. But nothing that would generate an ax. Here, out in the wilds of Underhill facing a plant as a foe, his magic was less than useless.

  He gave Gleam an apologetic look. “Sorry, you deserve better treatment.” Dwarven forged out of rare star metal, Gleam was one of the sharpest blades in Underhill. But it was forged for battle, not for hacking into vegetation.

  The sword shimmered a response, its edge taking on an even sharper appearance. He took that as permission.

  He raised his voice and aimed it at the oblivious Triton, munching away in apparent peace. “At least Gleam is in on the challenge.” Triton merely twitched his tail and kept grazing.

  “Here goes.” Ardan aimed for a thick branch and brought the blade down hard.

  His first strike bit deep into the wood, thick white sap dripping from the cut. The blade bent with the impact, then snapped back into shape, the recoil sending a vibrating shudder up through his arm and into his shoulder. The branches let out a hiss, shrinking back into themselves and weaving tighter together.

  Triton’s snort almost sounded like laughter.

  “You keep your thoughts to yourself.”

  At this rate his month would be up before he’d made it even a few feet. He gathered his Gift tightly to him and sent a bolstering line of magic into the blade.

  The extra magic helped. He hacked and cut his way into the hedge at a slow but steady rate, leaving branches and twigs dripping sap like white blood. The vicious thorns stabbed at him, drawing their own blood.

  The smell of damp vegetation and rot was thick in his nose and the farther in he went the darker it got. He increased his personal shielding, adding more and more reinforcement the farther he went. Sweat poured down his face as he cut his way in, deeper and deeper into the thick green shadows.

  Over and over—lift Gleam high and cut the branches above. Then the mid-section. Then down low. Duck the vicious thorns, slice off their tips. Advance two steps and start again. Move, cut, duck, cut. He’d gotten into a rhythm when a loud whinny came from behind him, sounding far away. Ardan turned.

  He was deeper than he’d thought, at least ten feet in. The hole behind him was shrinking, closing up behind him, trapping him away from the daylight and the horse outside. As he hesitated, the break in the hedge sealed up, cutting him off from escape and enclosing him in darkness.

  Panic rose in his throat as the instinctive fear of being buried alive rose up and choked him.

  He wasn’t getting out. He’d be trapped in here forever, away from the wide open lands of his birth.

  Chapter Five

  The smell of his own fear rose up around him, mixing with the scent of damp and rot. He twisted and turned in the dark, slashing wildly, his grip on the sword growing slippery with sweat.

  A thin light appeared and he slowed his frantic movements. Silver dwarven letters glowed on the flat of Gleam’s blade, giving Ardan just enough light to show the narrow tunnel closing in around him.

  His panic subsided and a rush of bolstering courage rose to take its place. He solidified his grip and hacked away, the thorns slashing and stabbing at his personal shields as he cut.

  The extra battle magic he’d been fed by his lover, the White Queen, made him strong and his shield held. She was dead and gone but the magic he’d paid for in blood and tears would always be his. It was rare over the last few months that he’d felt grateful to her, but in this moment, besieged on all sides by deadly greenery, he blessed every drop of magic he’d paid for with his innocence.

  It seemed like hours, but eventually a weak green daylight lit the branches in front of him. He pushed harder, slashing through the last of the angry thorns into the bright sun. He stumbled out to a stretch of tall grass, taking deep breaths of freedom and the sweet scent of roses, thanking the goddess for his escape.

  The gap in the hedge sealed up behind him, the thorns slashing at the air, their rage rippling along the entire hedge. He wiped the sweat from his hands on his pants and took a better grip on Gleam, ready for the next attack. But none came.

  Outside the hedge where he’d been it was nearly winter, the branches bare but for a few dried leaves, the grass dried and yellow. But in here, late summer bloomed and the heavy scent of flowers filled the air. The remains of a low tumbledown wall and gate protected what had once been a charming garden, but was now a wild mess of overgrown roses tumbling in a confusion of bright colors around a small stone cottage.

  He took a few steps towards the wall, alert for the next attack.

 
Ivy had nearly swallowed the cottage’s sagging front door and the stone walk was thick with wild violets, their purple and yellow faces bright with promise. A quaint turret poked out of the sagging thatched roof, its own slate tiles gaping with holes like a blowsy street whore’s mouth.

  The sun lit on Gleam’s edge, but the sides of the garden along the wall and the house remained shadowed. He had no time to appreciate the romance of the broken-down cottage. Despite the growing light of the sun, those shadows seemed to be getting bigger.

  The back of Ardan’s neck prickled.

  All was not how it seemed here.

  One by one, small bits of shade pulled together, knitting together into one larger shadow. As Ardan watched, the shadow grew. One portion elongated into a long snout, with sharp teeth. Darkness poured into it, forming a long middle with a spiked spine that trailed out into a tail.

  The prickling on the back of his neck spread along his spine as he watched the shadows racing from across the garden and forming the black shape of a dragon.

  The monster lunged, going for his head. Instinctively he threw Gleam up, countering the beast. It had no details of scales, but the blade bit in as if into flesh. It roared. The heat of its breath burned Ardan’s cheeks. His armor glowed, the star-steel shining as the shadow lunged again, and again.

  He swung Gleam, cutting a piece of darkness from the beast. Its roar was angry and it moved fast, shadowy fangs open.

  This time he was ready for it. He drew on his magic, flinging as much as possible into Gleam. The blade cut down into the dragon’s neck, severing the head from its spine. The shadows dissolved, fleeing back to their corners, and the sun took over, dancing over the rose petals as if nothing had ever been there.

  Ardan panted. He held Gleam up waiting and ready for the next obstacle, his blood singing with the thrum of battle. But nothing came.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” he shouted, his voice echoing across the empty sunny garden.