by Jocelyn Fox
“Tess-mortal!” Forin appeared as if from nowhere.
The birch tree trembled, the green slowly leaching from its leaves as the luster faded from the dryad’s hair and it hung limp. I realized the opposite was true: the dryad wasn’t hurting Finnead, but whatever she was taking from his shoulder was hurting her. For a heartbeat I felt a rising triumph, as if the dryad’s pain was some sort of cosmic revenge for her passionate kiss with Finnead; but just as briefly as the feeling surfaced, it evaporated, replaced by a strange feeling of concern. “He’s killing her,” I said, starting toward the tree. Small hands gripped my ear for balance as Forin landed on my shoulder. The Sword vibrated in its sheath on my back.
“Tess,” Merrick said warningly, keeping pace, “it might not be good to interfere…”
“Did you miss what just happened?” demanded Vell. “She was naked, he’s almost naked—good riddance!”
I was almost halfway to the tree.
“Tess-mortal, I believe I know something that may help,” Forin said into my ear.
“Spit it out then, because I’m not slowing down,” I said tersely, striding through the long grass.
“Dryads are connected to the lifeblood of Faeortalam, some say to the Ancient,” the Glasidhe explained quickly. “Their connection lets them heal.”
“Heal?” I stopped short, so suddenly that Merrick almost collided with me.
“Yes, heal,” Forin repeated patiently. “Most of them are particularly adept at drawing out poisons.”
“Like from a Dark creature,” I said grimly. I turned to Vell. “Did the Vaelanbrigh say anything to you about his shoulder?”
She shook her head. “I offered to change the bandage for him when we stopped to make camp, but he refused.”
“Would you be able to tell if the sigil-spell didn’t work?”
Vell shrugged. “I’m a Northern healer. I don’t work much in the ways of blood-blessed blades and such. But it would probably be rather obvious.”
When I looked back to the tree, the dryad was curled on the ground, thin black veins marring her greyish skin. Finnead knelt by her, head bowed. Then he picked her up effortlessly, as if she weighed no more than a dry leaf, and gently placed her back into her tree. Her body melted into the bark and the tree shivered, poisonous black threads creeping up its trunk under its peeling bark.
I pushed away the last vestiges of jealousy. There would be time enough for that later. Forin adjusted his grip on my ear as I strode forward.
“I’ll get the mounts ready,” Vell said, turning away.
“I’ll help,” Merrick said quickly, following the Northerner toward the other side of the clearing.
Finnead seemed not to hear my approach. He stood contemplating the dryad’s tree, shirt held loosely in one hand. He’d taken the bandage off his shoulder, and as I neared I saw the thin black lines creeping out from the wounds near his shoulder blade. They were receding, though, as the dark tendrils on the birch tree darkened. The Vaelanbrigh’s appearance had not much improved since I first saw him after the battle in the healing-room. A black eye still stood out vividly against his pale skin, fading around the edges to green, and there was still a bruise around his torn lip. Somehow, though, he still projected an easy, powerful grace.
“Will she die?” I looked up at the trembling branches.
I waited for him to answer my question, watching the tree silently. A groan came from the trunk of the tree, the sound of wood splitting, but Finnead remained motionless. Finally he said, “I hope not.”
A number of cutting remarks rose in my mind, all centering around his passionate kiss with the nubile tree-spirit, but they all seemed petty and mean-spirited as I glimpsed the weariness written on Finnead’s face. He remained silent. I stood for a moment more and then I turned away.
“He didn’t speak to you?” Vell asked quietly as I checked the straps on Kaleth’s gear.
“Only to say that he hopes the dryad doesn’t die,” I replied tonelessly.
“If the Vaelanbrigh asked the dryad to heal him,” Merrick said slowly, “then that means that he’s still poisoned…doesn’t it?”
“He doesn’t want my help. He can be pig-headed all he wants. If it makes him feel better to keep up the invincible superhero game, then I’m not going to tell him otherwise.” A prickle of concern ran through me but I pushed it away.
“If he’s still poisoned, though—”
“If he wants my help, he should ask for it,” I snapped. Instead of sticking his tongue down naked dryads’ throats in the name of healing, I added mentally.
Vell shook her head.
“What?” I demanded.
She raised her eyebrows at me. “Don’t go snapping at me because he—” she jabbed her finger over her shoulder in Finnead’s direction—“is being an ass.”
I took a deep breath. “Sorry.” I slipped Kaleth’s halter over his head, arranging his silky forelock over it. “Why did you shake your head?”
“Because that boy is going to fall off his faehal before he admits that he needs help,” she said. “And you’re too mule-headed to help him without his asking.”
“I don’t think the Vaelanbrigh would appreciate you calling him a ‘boy’,” I said lightly, thinking of the Vaelanmavar.
Vell shrugged. “When you act like children…”
I sighed in frustration. “Can we please just get on the road?”
“Farin is scouting ahead,” Forin said into my ear. I’d almost forgotten that he was there, standing in Wisp’s customary position.
“Thank you. At least someone has their head in the game this morning,” I muttered.
“This is no game, Tess-mortal,” Forin reminded me grimly.
“It’s an expression,” I replied, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth despite my attempt to remain serious.
In short order, we saddled our mounts, working silently. I adjusted the Sword’s sheath across my back, and I strapped my plain blade to my saddle. The morning sunlight bathed the whole glade in a golden glow, but I kept glancing back at the dryad’s tree. The birches on either side of it leaned toward the afflicted tree, their branches mingling. I felt a little better; perhaps the other dryads could give their sister strength. Or perhaps they were mourning her, another part of my mind suggested bleakly. I slid my toe into the stirrup and pulled myself into the saddle, sore muscles protesting, but after the short run and stretch, my body felt much better. The Caedbranr vibrated in its sheath, clearly happy to be moving again.
We settled into the same pattern in which we’d traveled the day before: Vell and Merrick to either side of me, with Vell taking the lead when the path became too narrow for three riders abreast, followed by Kavoryk on his ox-like mount, and then the Vaelanbrigh bringing up the rear. Forin and Farin took shifts, one riding on my shoulder or between Kaleth’s ears, and the other flying ahead to scout the path. Against my better instincts, I let myself glance back at Finnead once, on the condition that I wouldn’t do it again. One glance, that was all I would get. He looked paler than usual, the bruises on his face standing out starkly; but he rode with the same easy skill and wore that same expression of calm aloofness that I’d wondered at so many times. His blue eyes remained inscrutable. I wondered if he was thinking about the dryad, and then I turned my attention back to the path.
As we traveled farther and farther from Darkhill, the forest became wilder, brambles twined among the tree-trunks, wicked thorns gleaming in the shafts of sunlight filtering through the leaves overhead. Beryk slipped into the forest like a shadow, but he returned more often, as if to check that we were still there. Even when he trotted alongside Vell’s mount, his attention remained on the thick forest surrounding us, his demeanor no longer playful. Forin and Farin seemed more serious as well, their banter subdued. Even the Sword was watchful, the emerald in its pommel staring into the shadows.
“Do you think the Skin-wraiths made a report back to whomever was controlling them?” I asked Vell quietly, the s
unlight pooling in our path deepening as the day sank into afternoon.
“Even if they did, they’d only assume we are scouts too,” said Merrick. A note of questioning remained in his voice.
“Not necessarily,” I replied, thinking of the milky eyes of the last Skin-wraith as it gazed at me. “I felt like the one that saw me knew me. Or recognized something about me.”
Vell pressed her lips together. Merrick frowned.
“Can Skin-wraiths smell mortal blood?” I wondered aloud. “Can they even see?”
“It depends on their creator,” Vell said. “Most of the time, a mage can craft his Skin-wraiths for a specific mission. If the ones we encountered were made specifically for scouting, they probably had a very acute sense of smell and hearing. Vision isn’t as important in a thick forest like this, though it would help. They probably weren’t blind.”
I shivered a little. “Their eyes were creepy enough.”
Vell shrugged with one shoulder. “They’re not made to look pleasant. They’re just pawns. Pieces to be moved by the controlling player.”
I held my tongue at that. Is that what we are? I wanted to ask. Then Murtagh’s words rose in my mind. I’d almost forgotten about my Walking, the memory half-drowned by the hot tide of jealousy that had swamped me soon after waking from sleep. “I’m going to ask another question,” I said slowly, the Sword humming as it caught a snatch of my thoughts, “and neither of you can laugh at me.”
Merrick gave me a strange look. Vell scanned the shadows impassively.
“I’ll take that to mean you won’t laugh,” I continued. “It’s a ridiculous idea, but Murtagh, the Unseelie Walker—he came and talked to me last night.” I shifted in my saddle uncomfortably. “He seemed to think that Mab wanted Molly to bear the Sword because Molly wouldn’t have been as much of a threat, after it was all said and done.”
“Whether her Fae half is unbound or not,” Merrick said slowly, “she is still half mortal.”
Vell tilted her head to one side, dark hair blending with the shadows. “She would have been easier to control because she would have been weaker. The Sword would have killed her slowly.”
A rush of power enveloped me suddenly, my war-markings blazing emerald, visible through the cloth of my shirt. My hair struggled to escape its braid, crackling with energy, and green flames licked at the edges of my vision. For a moment I let the Caedbranr’s fire sing through my bones, drawing in a deep breath. I heard a sharper intake of breath from Merrick, and a murmured Northern word from Vell. I pushed the power back down, admonishing the Caedbranr to control itself. It responded by draining almost all its power from me, leaving me gasping. I coughed and swatted irritably at the flyaway tendrils of hair framing my face.
“Or the Sword would have killed her not so slowly,” said Merrick. He narrowed his eyes at me through the dusky shadows.
“I know my hair’s a mess,” I said, squirming under his scrutiny.
“It’s not your hair,” Vell informed me.
“Your eyes went too, that time,” Merrick explained. “Green fire.”
“Oh.” I blinked to make sure that my vision still functioned normally. “Well, everything’s in working order.” I shrugged, a little apologetically. “The Sword tends to be a little sensitive about us discussing any outcome other than the current one.”
“As in, us discussing what would have happened if Molly was Bearer?” Vell asked.
The Caedbranr flared a little. I clamped down on it firmly. “Yes.”
“Didn’t know a millennia-old weapon of power would be so touchy,” she murmured, raising an eyebrow.
I shrugged again. “Maybe it’s irritable after its four hundred year nap in the tree. Regardless, we’re getting along very well, actually.” I rubbed my arm. “Except for the whole involuntary ink incident. But it fades, so I guess that’s okay.”
“It makes you look tough,” Vell replied impishly.
A chuckle rumbled from behind us.
“Well, I’m glad my non-consensual tattoo is a source of amusement for someone,” I said dryly, twisting to look at Kavoryk. His teeth glimmered from his dark beard as he grinned. The gory sack, now stained through with black blood, still swung from his saddle. The smile faded from my face and I rubbed my forehead with one hand.
“What else did the spy have to say?” Vell pressed.
I decided that re-braiding my hair was worth the hazard of taking both hands from the reins. I arranged the reins loosely in front of me and clamped a little harder with my legs as I quickly finger-combed my hair. “He said that Mab…” I stopped, resisting the urge to look behind us.
“Mab…?”
“Queen Mab’s power is…diminishing,” I said carefully, trying to remember the exact words that Murtagh had used as I finished braiding my hair.
“Diminishing how, exactly?” asked Murtagh.
I took a breath. “Apparently—this is just what Murtagh told me—the word around Court is that the Queen is relying on the Vaelanseld and…and the Vaelanbrigh to help bolster her power.”
“Bolster her power,” Murtagh repeated. He did what I wanted to do so badly, looking over his shoulder at Finnead.
“And I thought you Court-breds were supposed to have tact,” murmured Vell.
Merrick ignored her. “What do you mean, bolster her power?”
“I mean, Murtagh seems to think that she’s draining them. That she’s having a hard time holding back Malravenar in whatever invisible tug-of-war they’re playing, and she can’t rely on the Vaelanmavar anymore.” I tried to keep my voice low but I knew it was useless.
Consternation darkened Merrick’s gray eyes. “Do you think we should ask him? With the poison and all…”
“It’s rather rude to talk about someone behind their back, especially when they can hear you.”
Merrick contained his surprise at Finnead’s words after a brief moment. I, however, stiffened in shock, the sound of Finnead’s voice vibrating through my body. I set my jaw and carefully schooled my expression into a look of polite surprise. “Would you like to join the conversation, Vaelanbrigh?” I asked, my voice painfully civil. Merrick guided his mount behind me as Finnead’s mount surged forward. Kaleth held his ground, ears flattening. Finnead’s knee brushed mine as our mounts jostled for position on the trail, and it was as if an electric spark jumped between us. I clenched my teeth and forced the image of his passionate kiss with the dryad to the front of my mind, holding onto it like an anchor against the building ache in my chest.
“I would thank you not to speak of matters which you do not understand,” the Unseelie Knight said, his sapphire gaze piercing through the shadows between us.
“Then please, enlighten me,” I replied lightly.
“It is my duty to serve the Queen,” he said, his face hard as stone.
A seed of anger took root in my chest, mingling with the building ache. “I thought your duty was to escort me safely to the Seelie Court.”
Finnead raised one of his dark eyebrows, just slightly. I wanted to slap myself for sounding like such a self-involved, ignorant child. As if the whole world revolved around me when there were Skin-wraiths and bone-crowned Riders and garrelnosts savaging the forests. And dryads. Naked dryads. That helped the anger bloom a little more.
Vell melted into the shadows, her mount sliding ahead of us silently.
“I am bound to the Queen by blood and the Named Sword I wear,” Finnead said stiffly. The Brighbranr chimed a soft, beautiful note, as if to reassure him. “These are dark times.”
“That’s all you have to say about the fact that your Queen might just drain you dry like a spider with a fly caught in her web?” It wasn’t the greatest comparison, but it was all that came to mind at the moment. At least he would understand it better than the vampire description.
Finnead gazed at the path. The darkening light caught the frozen-ice colors in his raven-wing hair, deep purples and greens and blues splaying across his head in haphazard beauty.
I shook myself.
“It is not a prospect I relish,” he finally replied, each word pronounced very precisely. “But I am a man of my word.”
I couldn’t help the slight scoff that escaped me at that last sentence. Something flashed across Finnead’s face, quicker than lightning, and I missed it. I waited for him to go on, but he nudged his faehal in the ribs. I leaned forward in the saddle and Kaleth kept pace as Finnead’s mount lengthened his strides.
“So she’s really doing it? Mab really is draining you?” The question burst out of me, spilling over my lips before I could clamp them shut. I saw Finnead’s jaw working, as though he bit down on a reply. He wouldn’t look at me as he dug his heels into his mount’s sides. Kaleth thrust his head forward, ready to match the other faehal’s speed, but I leaned back and kept a firm hold on the reins. Finnead’s mount broke into a canter, and I let him go, watching the shadows caress his pale skin and the light paint his hair in brilliant colors.
Chapter 11
We traveled for a few more hours and then stopped to fill our water-skins in a clear, cold stream. I splashed some water on my face, sighing.
“Most don’t realize that life on the road is a dirty business,” Vell commented as she washed her own face.
I wet a kerchief and scrubbed at my face and neck. “I’ll wash now that I have the chance.” I smoothed my dampened hair back from my forehead.
Vell dried her face and stood, rubbing the leaf of a nearby tree between her fingers. Her face took on a concentrated yet far-away look as she moved among the trees, calloused hands touching the bark of the trees. She sank onto her haunches and studied the ground, brushing aside some dead leaves to peer at the earth.
Merrick slid a map out from its traveling-tube as his mount lowered its head to the stream. Forin and Farin hovered over his shoulder as he unrolled the map, his youthful face taut with thought. Wringing out my kerchief, I stepped closer and peered at the map. “Is something wrong?”
For a few moments, Merrick studied the map silently. He spread it on the ground, weighing the corners down with rocks. “I don’t know,” he finally said. He took out a device that looked like an intricate compass from his belt-pouch, adjusting the knobs and dials, the gold of the instrument gleaming softly in the shade. After inspecting the delicate knobs thoroughly, Merrick set the device on the map. He murmured a Sidhe word, and the compass sprang open, revealing a black surface as polished as a mirror. A ripple ran across the surface, and then a hazy image appeared. Fascinated, I leaned closer.