by E.J. Weber
Part 3
The Thief
The day that Gleason came into the tavern, Amandie almost dropped her tray. She was so surprised that it wobbled badly, but he quickly lifted a hand to still it. The glasses clinked, but they did not fall.
“Still juggling things, I see,” Gleason said, with an impish smile. It improved his rather lean and unattractive face greatly. Then he sat down at the bar as though he belonged there, as though it was every day that a Village boy came into the busiest tavern in the Three Villages and sat down.
Amandie set her tray down on a nearby empty table that needed to be wiped off, and went over to him at once. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. When he only smiled, she asked the question she had wanted to ask more, which was, “And how did you get out?”
“I followed you, of course,” the boy said calmly. “One of the times you came back to visit. Found the old stump there and saw what happened when you touched it.”
Amandie looked at him carefully, as she hadn’t done in quite some time. He wasn’t really a boy anymore, Amandie thought. He was old enough to be a man, even if he was scrawny and untidy. Just as she was old enough to be a woman, for they were roughly the same years. He wore a loose linen tunic with red and green embroidery—the colors of the Village—which was coming unstitched in places, and which fell open at his chest instead of being properly laced up. His brown pants were patched and his navy vest had a hole at the top of the shoulder. “You’re not the only one who wants more than a Village life,” Gleason said.
Amandie was so disturbed by this that she completely forgot she was working and sat down. Lady Erin hadn’t been pleased when Amandie chose not to return to the Village, even after the faerie had solved her problem. Amandie felt a small thrill when she thought of how the faerie woman had confronted the Baron.
She had been magnificent! If Amandie’s mother wasn’t quite so shrewish, Amandie would have followed Lady Erin anywhere after that, even back to the Village. Instead, the human girl had thanked her profusely, and given her a favorite beaded necklace to show her appreciation. Then she had left the Baron’s household, along with his other servants.
They’d all of them secretly hated the Baron, remaining in his service only out of fear of him. But now that he’d been spoken to by a faerie, the other staff feared staying with him even more. Amandie thought with satisfaction that once the tale spread, there were very few who’d be convinced to work for the man, especially for the coin he spent on wages.
“I didn’t leave right away, even though I knew how,” Gleason was telling her. “I bided my time, made my plans. Good thing I did, ’cause an interesting thing happened in the Village. And now I’m on the trail of something important, something that will lead me to my fortune!” Gleason smiled broadly, a less attractive sort of smile.
Amandie had never like Gleason much, though she had pitied him once; but seeing him here in this place was like seeing an old friend. Amandie had worked in the tavern for a while now, but it hadn’t come to feel like home to her; people spoke with a strange inflection—their manners were as different as their colors—and so very many of them were unmarked. She enjoyed the differences, she found them interesting and exciting, and yet she longed for something familiar. She feared she would always be a Village girl at heart.
The barkeep had just come over to them, where they were sitting at the bar. Gleason was unsuccessfully trying to order a glass of ale, because the master of the house’s attention was centered pointedly on Amandie instead. Amandie jumped to her feet and ran to retrieve her tray. She’d have to talk to Gleason later; right now she needed to show that she’d not completely forgotten her duties.
Amandie spent a few hectic hours wiping, clearing, serving, and ducking the innkeeper’s eye. He’d always been somewhat fatherly towards her, so she wasn’t afraid of him, but neither was he particularly lenient. She’d come to the tavern looking for work because she’d heard it was run by a man of the mark. When she discovered the rumor was false, he’d already offered her the job. She was weary of the road, and the other servants had reassured her that the tavern had a good reputation. So she’d stayed, instead of going on with them to Olcasse.
She had come to regret this decision, on occasion. The barkeep was strict with his customers—he made even the rowdiest leave the serving girls alone—but still she was aware of the eyes that followed her around the tavern, as she cleared the glasses. She knew that certain men watched her as she walked away from them and that some tried to peer down her dress as she set their food-laden plates down.
After what the Baron had done to her, Amandie had come to feel danger in the most harmless of flirtations, ones that she normally would have enjoyed. Even the handsome young priest, the one who’d spoken to her some weeks ago, had accidentally set this off, though his compliment was obviously sincere and his manner had been charming. Amandie’d had to tell the barkeep she’d developed a stomachache, which was true—her stomach was in knots—and then go lie down.
It wasn’t until the end of the evening, when most of the customers had gone, that she found a chance to speak with Gleason again. He’d been sociable enough with several other men, but they’d all eventually gone off to their beds. Now he was alone at the bar, apart from one morose drunk, a churlish old man who was usually the last customer to depart. Amandie thought for a moment, and then went candidly over to the barkeep.
“A friend of mine has come to the bar, and I’ve finished all the tables. I’ve also cleaned up the kitchen, and made the last of the beds. Would ye mind, now, if I sit with him and hear news of my village?” she asked. Brand, for that was the barkeep’s name, was restocking the clean glasses she’d brought out earlier, placing them onto the shelves in easy reach of bottles and spigots.
“Reckon that would be fine,” he told her slowly. “But mind you, no sitting at the bar again during hours. Girl pretty as you—it’s not a good idea. Not to mention that the work needs to be done.” Amandie took the reprimand humbly, and promised to follow his advice. Then she seated herself next to Gleason, a bit more shyly this time, since he’d clearly been waiting for her just as much as she’d been waiting for him.
“So, are ye off, then?” Gleason asked. “We could take a bit of a walk, you know,” he offered, with a suggestive smile. Amandie frowned angrily at him. She was pretty sure he was only teasing; it was his usual way after all. But no decent maid would walk out with a lad this late at night—and she did not like him saying it. “I’ve only sat to have news of you, and you know it,” she told him sternly. “If you’ve a tale to tell, you might as well tell it, and not be coy. I expect you want to, else you’d not have stayed so long.”
Gleason looked over her head, and then said airily, “Actually, I’ve taken a bed for the night.”
“And how’ve you managed that, then, without the coin?” Amandie blurted out. The rooms at the inn above the tavern were quite expensive; mostly rich merchants and fine noblemen stayed in them, although the prices at the tavern itself were low and the food was plentiful, which drew the common folk from all around. Gleason’s clothes were old and tattered; he didn’t look like a man in funds.
The plain boy’s face darkened. He’d always been the poorest boy in the Village; not a good, honest poor but a thieving, lying, disreputable one. It was hard to be a thief in a Village of good people; folk always knew where to look for what you stole. Amandie reminded herself that he hadn’t always been this way. They’d gone to school together, as all the Village children did, and she remembered him when he was small—when his mother was worn-out and markless, and his tiny sister was constantly sick.
It had been soon after the faerie came into the Village that Gleason had lost his mark, and some whispered that it was afterwards when he’d started stealing. He insisted to everyone that the faerie had lied, that he’d taken nothing from the shop and only ran in fear of her, but eventually the Village folk noticed that his palm was bare.
Aft
er that, when suspicion fell his way, his word was worthless. There were few in the Village without the mark, and good folk shunned him, even when his sister—who’d had the yellow fever—and then his mother, who’d developed it tending to her, had died and left him a penniless orphan. It was a bare charity that must have kept the boy alive, and bare charity can be a cold and friendless thing, or so Amandie sympathetically supposed.
“I’ve a job now, same as you,” Gleason boasted, pulling something out from beneath his dark blue vest and waving it emphatically around. “I’m a messenger—I’ve the coin and the horse to travel with—and a very important letter to bring on.” He tucked the letter back away carefully and took a sip of his ale, his expression triumphant.
Amandie had been thinking while she worked, and what she had thought worried her. For Gleason to have left the Village, something must be wrong. The faerie had told her that the Dead Tree would only let someone in or out who meant no harm to the Wood, and that would only be the folk of the Village, who had lived beside it for so long, and who knew its ways and proscriptions.
Lady Erin had said that the portal of the Dead Tree had once been common knowledge amongst the Villagers, but that over time people had forgotten it, perhaps with a little help from the Wood. Amandie had discovered the Dead Tree quite by accident, though she’d been searching rather futilely for weeks, to find a way out.
She’d caught a glimpse of movement, as though a transparent white fog had moved across the ground of the valley. Amandie had followed it until it disappeared into the bark of a black and broken tree, sitting on a hill. When she placed her hand at the point where it had vanished, she had come out the other side. Astonished and excited, she had wandered through unfamiliar farmlands and towns until she’d come to the Baron’s manor.
Amandie did not, however, believe that Gleason meant the Wood no harm. She didn’t trust him. And so, she was worried.
“You said something interesting happened in the Village?” she prompted. This was the real reason she’d wanted to talk to him, not to hear about his new job.
“Aye, a stranger came into it.” Gleason glanced over at her expectantly as he said this. Amandie’s jaw dropped. “A stranger?” she breathed. “That’s impossible!”
“’Twas what most folk thought. The entire Village came out to stare at him. Must have set the fellow a-wondering, but he walked on as bold as you please right through them, down the main street, and into the pub. Asked if there was an inn where he could take a bed for the night. Can you imagine it? An inn at the Village?” Gleason guffawed. Amandie couldn’t help but giggle herself. An inn at the Village would always be empty.
“So, what was he? How did he come there? Where was he going?” she demanded, more eager to hear the tale than Gleason could have hoped.
“Well, now, that’s the thing of it. He said he was the new priest. Said Father Brion had asked for him to come, as his replacement. But I was watching him; he may have been dressed like a priest, but he acted like a baron or a lord. All dark and commanding he was, like he was used to ordering people about.” Amandie felt a sudden tightening in her chest. The young priest who had complimented her had been brown-haired. He’d asked of the Church of the Wood—the other serving girls had told as much. Could it be the same one?
“And there’s more...” Gleason had lowered his voice, though by now they were the only ones in the bar, apart from Brand, the barkeep, who appeared to be paying little attention to them. The churlish old man had finally gone.
“I saw a ring on his finger, and I kept a memory of its stone, to ask about when I’d gone.” Amandie raised her eyebrows. The stone in a ring corresponded to the rank of its wearer. Amandie knew this in theory; the only noble ring she’d ever seen was the Baron’s, which was brown like the walls of his manor. She shivered at the thought, but Gleason didn’t notice. He was wrapped up in his story; his dark blue eyes glowed with excitement.
“I left the same way as you, not long after that. Came to the Baron’s land,” he paused at Amandie’s intake of breath, but then went on when she didn’t comment, “and asked for a job at the Manor house. Had an interesting talk with the Baron, and he gave me this letter,” Gleason patted his vest, “and the horse, and enough coin to make it to the Palace in style.”
This last bit of information was the pay-off, the part that Gleason expected her to be impressed by. And Amandie was—she had dreamed of seeing the Palace herself, especially after what the priest had said—but she was also filled with a sense of foreboding. A letter from the Baron could bring nothing but ill to anyone, she thought.
“And I suppose you know what’s in the letter?” she asked, tracing a deep scar in the otherwise smooth surface of the bar with her pointer finger and trying not to appear too interested in the answer to this.
“’Course not. The letter’s sealed, isn’t it? But I’ve a good idea of what’s in it.” Gleason’s narrow face was self-important. “And I’ll not be telling anyone, so don’t you ask. I’m a messenger now, and a messenger has his secrets.” Amandie looked at him openly now, not liking what she saw. She saw a man with ambition, one who was not wise enough to have seen how evil the Baron was.
“I’ve thought of going to the Palace myself,” she said, her pulse quickening. It was true, she had thought of it, although only as a daydream. “I thought I might ask for a job. I’m good at what I do here, and I think I could do better than a tavern.” She hoped that Brand didn’t overhear this; she didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the work that she had.
“Well, then, you can come with me,” Gleason offered eagerly. For a moment, Amandie saw a flash of the little boy he had been, back when they were still friends. He’d been shy, and sweet, and full of imagination. She felt a lump in her throat. “There’s room for two on the horse. I’d see you there safely,” he promised. For a moment she forgot how he’d lost the mark, and she believed him. And then she remembered, and realized how foolish it would be to trust herself to his company. He was a thief, and a liar, whatever his shiny new job.
Still, she did want to go to the Palace. And she couldn’t travel alone, unaccompanied. Gleason was a Village boy, which was almost like a brother. They were, in fact, cousins—third cousins to be exact, although not very close. If she went with him, she could keep an eye on him, and possibly even find out what was in the Baron’s letter. It was worth the risk to protect the Wood; she owed as much to the faerie, and more besides.
“I have to tell my master. He’ll be disappointed, but I’ve wages enough put by. I’ll tell him I’m sure of a job there.” She wondered if this was stretching the truth; the dark-haired priest had said she was better than any of the Palace servants, but it hardly guaranteed her a job. “I can be ready to leave in the morning,” she told Gleason firmly, her face determined.
“Well, I’m off to bed then, and you should get your rest as well. It’s nine days ride to the Palace from here,” Gleason said authoritatively, as though ready to take charge of her wellbeing at once. As though he was an experienced messenger and not just a Village lad who stole and lied.
Amandie kept herself from laughing at him.
This journey will surely take more than nine days, she thought, at the pace that this horse travels. When Gleason had boasted of having a horse, Amandie’d thought of a fine chestnut steed. Instead they were riding a nappy old mare, gray speckled and lazy. She had no need to clutch onto Gleason’s back, at this slow trot; she was glad of the extra personal space but at the same time she was unhappy with the extension of their time together. Gleason wasn’t exactly the companion she desired.
He treated her much as if he owned her, as though he had input into when she should speak, and when she should not. He’d told her this was for her own good—that the road was a dangerous place—but she felt it was because he didn’t like the friendly way folk reacted to her, even when it was innocent and nice.
In the pub at the last Village, where they’d spent the night, an ancient man had
bought Amandie a drink, clearly liking her and wanting someone to chat with on a dull night. Gleason had made a nuisance of himself, interfering with their pleasant conversation. And then afterwards, he lectured her on letting folk buy her drinks, as though the nice old man had been a lecherous young one. Amandie was still somewhat furious with him about it, and having to ride on the same indolent horse together didn’t lessen her fury much.
“We’re almost to the next village,” Gleason told her cheerfully. Almost, on this horse, meant another hour or so, Amandie fumed to herself. She was certain she could walk faster.
“Aye, that’ll be a nice break,” was what she said to him. She wouldn’t allow herself to lose her temper. Not if they were going to be traveling together for what was beginning to look like a fortnight.
The village they came to was full of steeply roofed houses with decorative half-timbering that stood out prettily against their off-white surfaces. Gleason was leading the horse now, which Amandie had named Molasses, since Gleason hadn’t bothered to find out from the Baron what the mare was actually called. The main cobblestone street led through a tall clock tower with a high arched tunnel. The street was quiet and almost deserted, until they passed through the tower’s tunnel and into what would have been a large open space, were it not bustling with laughter and music and folk.
Amandie looked around her in amazement. They had walked into some sort of festival. There were booths selling wares of all kinds. They were set up around the square, leaving the middle of it empty for people to dance in. A fiddle and harp played cheerful tunes, and several folk were clapping in time. Colorful banners hung across the square, and the smell of roasting lamb shanks and cinnamon-spiced apples permeated the happy crowd.
Gleason tied the mare to a hitching post and made his way to a nearby food vendor. Amandie was drawn immediately to a booth full of shawls, kerchiefs, and scarves. The scarves were what fascinated Amandie the most—they were of all different varieties of fabrics—cotton, knit, silk, wool—and of all different types—some plain and simple, some with long fringes, some covered in spangles or wavy embroidered patterns.
Amandie reached out to touch a silken one, running her fingers covetously down its soft green length and letting them skip over the embedded rhinestones which sparkled, amber and turquoise, in the full sunlight of the open square. The man who owned the booth came over to help her, having just finished up with another customer.
“Lovely, isn’t it? Would go well with those pretty eyes you have,” he said, with a winning smile. He was a rugged-looking man in his later years, though not yet elderly. “Go ahead, try it on,” he coaxed.
Amandie couldn’t resist. She wound the scarf around her neck with a flourish, and tied it in a loose knot. Wearing it, she felt like a princess. The booth keeper beamed at her, seeming to take true pleasure in her expression. He held up a mirror for her to gaze in, and Amandie saw that he had been right. The scarf made the green in her mixed eyes, which she sometimes felt were a bit muddy, stand out bright and clear. She was tempted, very tempted, but she was running low on funds. Their journey to the Palace was taking longer than she’d expected.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t afford it,” she said regretfully, taking it off and trying to hand it back to him. The booth keeper refused to take it. “It’s the Festival of Scarves,” he told her. “If you can’t buy it, then you must keep it, as a gift. A lovely lass such as yourself shouldn’t be here without one.” Amandie glanced around and discovered that he was right; every woman, young or old, was wearing some sort of scarf, some as beautiful as this one and some more humble, but all of them colorfully fluttering around. Even the little girls wore bright bows on their necks with the long ends hanging down.
“I don’t know that I could,” Amandie demurred. “Surely it’s too costly to give away to a stranger,” she said. The booth keeper opened his mouth to protest, but a familiar voice suddenly sounded from behind Amandie’s shoulder and cut him off.
“Exactly so,” Gleason snapped. “We’ve no need of your gifts, old man. We have coin enough for what we want.” Gleason elbowed his way around to her side, his unattractive face tight with reproof.
“I meant no disrespect to your sister, young man,” the booth keeper said calmly, raising up his left palm. The mark glowed dimly against the fervor of the blue and cloudless afternoon, but it was still unmistakable.
Amandie felt suddenly ashamed of her own ungracious behavior, of her constant doubts about people—so unlike what she had felt about the world before her experience with the Baron—which Gleason’s rude behavior cast such an unpleasant light upon. All around them was joy and merriment, and this man had kindly offered to let her be a part of that.
“Of course not,” Amandie said firmly, at the same time as which Gleason snapped, “She’s not my sister.” The booth keeper’s eye traveled from one to the other, and then rested on Amandie. “I’d love to have the scarf,” she said firmly, knotting it back around her neck.
“But we’ll pay for it,” Gleason grumbled.
The booth keeper ignored him and addressed Amandie instead. “It’s my pleasure to give it to you then, lass. And don’t forget to join in the dancing. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of amiable partners.” His eyes flashed disapprovingly at Gleason, and then he turned away to help another customer who’d been waiting for him to finish with them.
Amandie stalked away from Gleason, and ignored him for the remainder of the afternoon. She did indeed join in the dancing, whirling away with partner after partner, until her feet hurt and she was out of breath. When she could dance no more, she gaily waved away the last of the eager young men, and sat down and sang songs with the village children.
She braided their hair with colored ribbons, until she was too hungry to go on, and then she went in search of a long-delayed lunch. She ate apples on sticks and sweet glazed rolls and handfuls of salted nuts. There was cider to go with it, handed out in huge flagons by the vendors; she chose the unfermented kind, and drank it slowly down. All in all, she had a marvelous time.
Gleason had skulked moodily about for a bit, but when he saw she wouldn’t acknowledge him, he’d left with Molasses and not come back. At the end of the afternoon, just as Amandie was getting truly tired, he reappeared without the horse, meaning she must be in a stable at an inn. Amandie decided it was time to smooth things over. She’d been up early and by now she was almost ready for bed, although the festivities around her seemed more than likely to stretch on through the evening and into the night.
“So, where are we staying?” she asked him cheerfully.
“At the Tower Tavern,” he grudgingly replied. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was avoiding her eyes.
Amandie sighed. It was going to be a very long night.
Gleason’s stony disapprobation of her lasted through several more days and several more towns. When he did manage to speak to her it wasn’t nicely, so the two of them differed, and then he would fall silent again. Amandie gave up trying to make peace with him, and instead gave her attention to the people they encountered on the way.
At one tiny hamlet, a lad of tender years, eleven at most, offered Amandie a rose from amongst the flowers he was selling by the side of the road. He made a surprisingly pretty speech with it, and Amandie gave him a kiss on the cheek as a reward. In a large intimidating city, a round jolly man in a sweet shop insisted on popping one of his new creations, a bite-sized bonbon, into Amandie’s mouth, telling her that he needed an unbiased opinion. The chocolate was delicious—orange-flavored and creamy—and when she told him this, his small eyes sparkled with delight.
The storm that had been brewing between them broke when Molasses unexpectedly balked, after only a half hour’s riding, and would go no further. She and Gleason were forced to let the apathetic creature rest, even though it should have been fresh and eager. The horse had inconveniently halted in a wet grassy lea near an abandoned farmhouse. There was nothing, not even a small cottag
e at which they could beg a place by the fire, until the stubborn horse would go on.
“We could sit under the tree,” Gleason suggested. The tree was a sparse, diminutive thing, but under it lay a patch of dry-looking ground. So Amandie wound up resentfully huddled next to Gleason, while Molasses unhurriedly cropped the sodden grass. She tilted her head back to look up at the weak little branches of the tree and thought of the Wood—giant, black, and mysterious. This could hardly be called a tree at all.
“We need to get something straight between us,” Gleason began, after having kept silent for quite a while. Amandie sighed, and thought that the Village boy’s periods of silence were much more pleasant than not.
“We’re traveling companions, that’s all,” she told him flatly. It was a conversation she was quite sure they’d already had. “I’m not accountable to you, nor do you have the right to manage my behavior.” There, that was plain enough, the Village girl thought.
Gleason stood up and practically shouted, “You’ll get yourself into trouble, the way you talk to people. The way you let them give you things.”
Amandie was on her feet now, too. “A gift freely given is a grace of the god,” she shouted back.
“Spare me your piety,” Gleason said meanly. “They give you these gifts because they want something from you.” His eyes narrowed. “And maybe you want to give it to them.”
Amandie finally lost her temper. She slapped him as hard as she could.
For a minute, she thought he was going to slap her back. He stared at her rigidly for several long moments, and then he grabbed his bag and walked away from the tree, calling for Molasses. He saddled the mare with a furious motion, mounted her and rode off, without a backward glance.
Amandie watched until she could see neither horse nor rider, and then she slowly looked around.
He had abandoned her in a muddy field, with a single pathetic tree in it.
She supposed that now she would find out if walking really was faster than riding Molasses.
The Faerie Funeral
Lady Erin had never been so sad, not since her parents had died. The faerie woman tenderly crossed Father Brion’s arms across his chest, thankful that at long last she could touch him, and tearful that this was the reason why. She had laid his body out on the ground in the cemetery, and she was weaving dark green leaves into his hair. She’d already made him a blanket of snowy white blossoms. When she sang the Song of Farewell, the wild grass would grow up over his body and encase him, until there was nothing left but a mound of weeds where his body had been. The weeds would bloom then with scarlet flowers, and all the birds in the Wood would sing together.
That was the way of a faerie funeral.
“What in the name of the god are you doing?” a strange voice asked. It was a melodious voice, but unpleasantly demanding.
Lady Erin straightened up and let the last of the leaves and blossoms fall from her hand.
A tall, dark man wearing the robes of a priest was staring at her in astonishment, from inside the back door of the Church. He had dust on his forest green robes and he looked weary, as though he’d been traveling a long distance. And since she did not recognize him from the Village, he must have been.
His pale complexion was quite pleasing and his dark eyes were very fine. He was probably the oddest human she had ever seen. Humans were generally unattractive—fair and flushed—but this one was different.
“Well,” he began again, “What are you doing?” When she didn’t answer, he strode forward to inspect what she had done, and his eyes widened as he looked over Father Brion’s body. “Are these leaves?” he asked, pulling one out of the white hair. “Are these flowers?” he asked, his face growing more bemused as his fingers touched the white shroud. The young priest shook his head.
Suddenly he sighed, and touched his medallion. “Clearly, I’ve come too late,” he said, as though he had forgotten the leaves and the flowers, in thinking of this. “But where are the other women of the Church? Why are you keeping vigil alone?” His eyes returned to Father Brion’s body. “And why isn’t he laid out in the Church?”
The priest’s dark eyes fixed calmly on her face, clearly expecting an answer.
Lady Erin felt a bubble of hysterical laughter well up in her throat. Could it be that this priest had mistaken her for a human?
“This is the way that we do it,” she explained.
“And who is we? The folk of a backwater village? Surely even here you must know the ritual of the dead?”
Lady Erin’s eyes flashed, and the brown-haired man quickly stepped back. For the first time, his face showed apprehension.
“I must finish what I’ve started,” she told him evenly. She would not let this bossy human, whoever he was, hinder her from paying Father Brion her last respects. She took a deep breath, and then began to sing in the faerie language. The young priest stared at her, troubled but entranced.
The Wood listened to her song, and all around her, she could feel it stirring. She could see the eyes of its creatures glowing behind the cemetery’s fence. A gust of wind blew through the cemetery, stirring the green leaves in Father Brion’s hair.
When the weeds began to grow up over Father Brion’s body, the young priest jumped. When the scarlet poppies began to bloom and the songbirds sang and crows cawed, she thought he might even faint.
But he stood his ground. Both hands had gone to his silver medallion, and he held it slightly off his chest, as though it might ward her off.
Another human would have run, possibly screaming. Lady Erin couldn’t help it—she found him very curious.
When there was nothing left of Father Brion’s body but a red flowered mound, she stopped singing. The last note died away into the Wood, and the Wood was silent. The young priest had sunk down onto his knees, no doubt because his legs would not support him. His hand reached out to touch a poppy, as though to make sure it was real, and then danced back when he discovered it was. He looked up at her, dazed.
“How did you do that?”
Lady Erin had been crying for days, but now she suddenly laughed.
“I’m a faerie, you foolish man.”
The priest stood up quickly, his brow darkening. “I am not foolish!” he snapped. His eyes traveled from her tangled black curls to her bare feet, and then lingered on her blue and white dress. “So you’re the faerie,” he said.
“I’ll admit, I didn’t believe it,” he added.
“And who are you?” Lady Erin asked. And what are you? she thought to herself, for he acted like no other human she had ever met. Not even Father Brion had been so completely unafraid of her, even though he had loved her dearly, and perhaps he no longer feared her at the end.
“I’m Father Brion’s replacement. My name is Father Jared.” He did not offer to shake her hand.
“You could never replace Father Brion,” the faerie told him, deeply offended. Her grief suddenly overwhelmed her. She had no desire to stand here talking to this strange young human. She needed to be in her Wood; she needed to be with the animals and the trees. They would comfort her. They would understand.
The young man’s face grew suddenly thoughtful. “You were attached to him. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect. I’m sure Father Brion was a very good priest.” He looked at her steadily, and then something changed in his gaze. “But he was a human, after all,” the priest said in a low tone. “And faeries don’t like humans, do they?” He was gazing at her differently now, as though she had developed fangs or claws. A pang of dull anger and disappointment shot through her.
He was not different. He was just like all the rest.
And yet, it was still not fear that she read in him; it was more like suspicion.
“No, they don’t,” she said pointedly. And then she left.
She ran through the Wood for days, hoping for an exhaustion that never came, wanting to outrun her sorrow. She visited the territory of the wolves, the bears in thei
r caves, and the squirrels in their dreys. She made social calls at the lark’s nest, the otters’ river, the hawk’s high perch, and the low hill of the dog mice.
She saw that everything was in order; she helped the beavers with their dam, and she removed the blights from the trees. She even ventured out to the lake and swam down to the bottom to filter the stormy silt from the water.
It rained in the Wood for a week after she did this. The black clouds cried the tears that she would no longer shed. She paced in her faerie house, she rocked on the branches of the trees, and she even climbed to the highest tops of the Wood and turned her face to the sun.
None of it helped.
In the end, she went back to the Church. She could not keep herself from it. The holy day had already begun, and she had never missed one since she’d been marked. This past week had been the first time, and she had felt a hole in her chest when the day had passed. She thought of the young priest, who probably feared and hated her, for she had sung in front of him, and who knows what that had done to him. But it did not stop her from entering the Church.
She slipped quietly into the back, and took a seat on her bench. No one else ever sat there; it was hers. The service was already started, and the brown-haired priest—Father Jared, that had been his name—did not seem to notice that she had come. Lady Erin relaxed, and felt the peace of the god flow through her. She closed her eyes, and said the responses with everyone else. When she lifted her hand for the blessing, she didn’t open her eyes immediately because she was lost in the ritual, but then she snapped them wide, afraid she would miss it.
The marks surrounded her; they soothed and calmed her. This was what she had needed; this was why she’d come back here, even after Father Brion’s death.
The congregation slowly emptied from the Church, greeting the new priest again. He, in turn, expressed his sympathies for Father Brion’s passing. She stayed right where she was. She did not do it because she wanted his attention; she simply didn’t want to leave. Being here, it was almost as though she had not lost her best and dearest friend.
But the young man had finally noticed her sitting on her bench, and now he approached her. He was warier than last time; he did not come so close, nor speak as readily as he had. He took in her appearance, which she could only assume was even wilder than usual, and the stillness of the Church gathered around them. The torches flickered, and the damp smell of last week’s rain came in through the front door. As it did, the priest’s face seemed to war with several different emotions—surprise, pity, and then finally censure. The last one came out dominant.
“How did you get in here?” he sternly asked.
Of all the things he could have said, this was one she did not expect.
“Just like everyone else.” Really, the faerie thought, did he think that she had wings hidden away somewhere?
“By the door,” she said meaningfully. When he didn’t speak, her eyes flickered over to it.
“Only those with the mark may enter,” the priest said very stiffly, as though she had been mocking him. And perhaps she had.
Lady Erin felt a cold fury possess her. How dare this priest, this man, this human, speak to her as though she didn’t belong here, as though she trespassed? Slowly and deliberately, she raised her hand.
For a moment, she thought he might grab her palm and inspect it. His eyes traced the three circles of the mark, and then moved back to her face. “I did not think it possible,” he said slowly, as though the god had been mistaken. He touched his medallion, and then stared at her so hard she wished very much she could know what he was thinking. Until he said, “Even so, I do not think you should come here. This church is for humans.”
If he had plunged an iron stake into her heart, he could not have pierced it better.
“Then I will leave,” she said quietly.
She went out into the Wood. She came into her house. She sat down in her chair.
First the wolves came and licked her hand. When she didn’t move, they left. Then the bears came and snuffled in her face, but she did not stir. The larks paid a visit, landing on her shoulders and singing their sweetest songs. The dog mice abandoned their long network of tunnels and ran across her feet, which she did not draw back.
The beavers brought her water lilies to eat, and even tried to put them in her mouth, but she would not chew them, and they fell out again. Finally, the trees bent down their longest branches, and touched her long dark hair, and ran their tiniest twigs through it. She let them caress her, but she did not speak to them.
Her grief was insurmountable. She had lost Father Brion, and now she’d been banned from the Church.
She was fading, possibly even dying. The animals and the trees all knew it.