The arrowhead burned in his back. With sinking dread, he noted the numbness in his left arm. Iron. It was made of iron, which meant his magic was inhibited and he couldn’t heal the wound. Simith pressed his brow to the black bark. Only one creature could wield iron without poisoning themselves. He clunked his head against the wood, cursing himself. Of course, the trolls would ambush him. They had no reason to believe his appeal for a truce was in earnest, not from a knight who’d butchered more of their kind than any other. What better way to kill him off than when he was alone, on a mission no one knew about?
Hollow disappointment blended with his fury. He wasn’t sure whether it came by their blatant betrayal, or that he’d failed to make Rim’s dream come true. What did it matter? He’d been a fool. He was a fighter, not a peacemaker, and the dead buried their dreams in the ground along with their broken flesh.
Maybe soon, he’d be buried along with them.
Simith’s keen ears picked up on the whisper of footfalls over the mossy earth below. He could no longer fly and he couldn’t outrun them. He had his knives though, and his crystal blade. If he could wield it. He folded his limbs closer, shielding as much of his body as possible behind the wood. The muted green of his leathers should’ve camouflaged him, though night had fallen hours ago. The shadows were more friend to trolls than pixies. Their arrows couldn’t pierce these enchanted trees at least. Simith might have been a fool to trust them, but he hadn’t chosen the Jaded Grove as the meeting place by happenstance.
“Little Moth,” a gravelly voice called from below. “Your flight is done.”
“You’re not that precise with your bow,” he called back. “A sprite has better aim than your kind.”
“The scent of your blood is as sweet as sugar, pixie,” came another’s eager chortle. “Come down and tarry with us a while.”
“Join me up here and I’ll tarry all you want.”
Silence followed. Only stone welcomed the touch of a troll. No tree would abide them. He’d witnessed it before, the way the bark groaned in warning and the branches trembled with outrage before the wood shook them off like a tick. The roots would draw themselves from the soil to squeeze throats and ribcages. The Fae of the former Seelie and Unseelie courts had made sentinels of the forests that ringed their respective domains. Even a century after the destruction of their race, the Fae’s powerful influence lingered in the green world.
It might’ve been the certainty of this power that slowed Simith’s reaction to the snapping of twigs and the scrape of boots against the tree trunk. They couldn’t be climbing up, he assured himself. He’d have felt the rising ire through the bark. A trick, then, to lure him from cover.
Simith risked a glance. Eyes glowed up from the lower branches, yellow witchlights in the gloom moving steadily closer. He gaped down at them in astonishment.
“Impossible,” he whispered.
The brush of air whizzed by his face before he felt the skin split high on his cheekbone. Simith reacted on instinct, hurling a silver blade at the encroaching eye shine. One winked out. A scream rent the quiet grove and a body crashed to the ground. He counted four more pairs of eyes, their stout forms a shadowed outline in the darkness. None of them watched their comrade’s demise, gazes fixed upward on him. They continued to climb.
Simith did the same. Magic, he decided, gritting his teeth as he clambered toward higher branches, the iron arrowhead scraping against his shoulder blade. They must have procured a conduit through which to funnel their magic in a way that the trees didn’t recognize them as trolls. He didn’t know that was possible. Every conduit had a particular signature that marked its user. Sprites typically used a crown of roan berries, the hobgoblins steel piercings they wore on their skin, the boggarts the bones of their first kill. A conduit could not simply be swapped for another. They became as near and familiar as a limb.
Could they be using power without a conduit? Simith dismissed the notion out of hand. To draw raw magic into oneself was as lethal as swallowing flames. Only the immortal Fae had been capable of wielding it, their very blood fabled to be made of the same elements. Even the fairies, their cousin race, had to use conduits.
Yet, he couldn’t refute the quick sounds of pursuit behind him. None of this made sense. For now, it didn’t have to. For now, he simply had to escape, get back to the Thistle Court and confess to his commanders his foolhardy attempt to forge an accord with the trolls—and hope the fairies wouldn’t see it as treason.
Escape first, he ordered himself, noting with some worry that his mind was growing unorganized. It had to be the iron still lodged in his body. He didn’t have time to stop and remove the arrows. He wasn’t moving fast enough either; they were closing in on him. If he could leap to another tree, it might impede their chase. They’d managed to climb this one, but the ground-loving trolls weren’t as experienced moving between tree tops as he.
Simith found his chance in a tangle of branches that led away from the trunk he climbed. He followed them, barely as wide as his calf, but sturdy enough to bear his weight. With any luck, it would snap under the much heavier trolls should they dare to follow.
Working his way across in a crouch, he was halfway to the neighboring tree when a third arrow struck him. It plunged through his sword arm, just above the elbow. Simith couldn’t silence the hoarse cry. His foot slipped, slamming him chest-first into the solid wood. He threw another knife, a mere guess at the direction the arrow had come, barely clinging on with his legs. He heard a troll curse, but knew he’d hit nothing vital. The distraction bought him enough time to struggle the rest of the distance and put the trunk between them.
“Where is your famed battle lust now, Sun Fury?” one of them mocked. “We thought there’d be a better fight than this.”
Hazy with pain, Simith hadn’t the breath to pretend at bravado, his hands shaking, his skin soaked in blood.
The branches he’d used to cross trembled with the weight of another crossing. His heart sank. How were they doing this?
Simith dragged himself up and climbed anew. Slower than before. They must’ve heard his graceless movements. Triumphant snickers filled the night air.
“Why do this?” he called down, grasping at the frail hope of parlay. “My intention to discuss peace was in earnest.”
“Safer to trust a boggart with a newborn babe than to allow you near our king.”
He gritted his teeth. “Your army is on the brink of collapse. The fairies will send their legions to rout what’s left of it and march toward your homes.”
No reply.
“You’re making a mistake,” he shouted.
“It’s too late for peace.”
He said no more, cold despair settling on his feverish skin. Rim’s last words to him sounded in his head.
Don’t let the blade wield you, Sim. It’s your hand on the hilt. Your choice. Your will.
But she was wrong. Violence had wrung all choice from him. Even under a banner of peace, his enemies saw him as only a weapon.
Those same enemies crossed from the first tree to this one more expertly than he would’ve expected of a troll. The branches somehow held their substantial weight. Simith drew a steadying breath and prepared himself. Though he likely deserved it, he refused to be felled like an injured bird. He gripped his crystal blade, not yet drawing it. His magic would light the darkness like a blinding ray of dawn. They might know his position and scent his blood on the air, but he doubted they expected him to turn and fight, not after he’d already fled so far.
A tremor beneath his feet pulled his attention to the branch on which he knelt. He frowned at it, wondering if he’d imagined the wood had stirred. He bit back a sound of surprise when the bark under his palm did the same. It rippled, a vibration that travelled up his fingers and down the bones of his hand. As if it beckoned him. He put his cheek to its rough skin, and listened.
Climb, it murmured into his ear. Up. Now.
Simith released his sword, summoned what stren
gth he had, and obeyed. The Fae had taught their trees to speak, though they rarely did. Until this moment which he’d thought his last, he’d never experienced it before. And he didn’t believe in serendipity. With clumsy arms and shaking legs, he pulled himself slowly and unsteadily upward, knowing all the while that he likely climbed toward a dead end. Toward death. The sentinels of the Jaded Grove were known to be tall enough their branches could block the midday sun in some areas, but once he arrived at the top, it was over.
Still, he continued without hesitation, the tree murmuring at him all the while; Higher. Higher. Go. Sounds of pursuit came from below, though blessedly, no more arrows. The branches grew dense here, weaving between each other in the complicated patterns of the green world. Perhaps they didn’t think they could aim for him clearly. Perhaps they needed to concentrate on their hand and footholds this high up. Or—the more likely reason—they saw no need to put in the extra effort when eventually they’d catch up to—
His head collided with something solid. Startled, he jerked down a pace, staring upward in confusion. He could see nothing. That, in itself seemed odd. No sky, no stars. Not even the shadowy outline of branches leading on. He lifted a hand, wincing with the movement, and his fingers brushed against a wide, smooth surface. Pressing the whole of his palm against it, he swept outward, trying to locate the edge. Could it be a knotty shelf grown out of the tree?
It didn’t feel like wood. It was soft, and gave when he pressed in, bits of it breaking off to scatter over his face in a gritty rainfall. Dirt? He rubbed it between his fingers. The texture held that of soil. How could that be?
Up, up, up, the tree chanted again.
Branches creaked somewhere farther down. His pursuers approached. Simith skimmed his hands across the silty surface, but he found nothing. No edge. No hole. Nothing to get him past this barrier.
Higher. Climb. Climb!
Not knowing what else to do, Simith burrowed his fingers into the cool surface and gouged out a palm-full of…yes, it was dirt. He tossed it away, delving back in again and again as a hole formed above him. His arm and shoulder became a thundering agony greying his vision, but he could’ve sworn light came through the thinning layers. If he could just get to the top of them—
His hands broke through. An avalanche of dirt fell with it and he turned his head to the side just before he caught a face full of it. Irritated grunts came from below. The trolls had come close enough to be hit by some of that. Hopefully, it gave them pause while Simith frantically dug along the sides to widen the hole enough for his lithe frame. A dim glow filtered its way to him, a breeze whispering past the opening with unfamiliar scents. It didn’t matter where this led. The priority was to escape and this was the only one.
He reached for it. His hands found purchase on either side. With fresh blood pulsing from his wounds, he hoisted himself through.
And found himself on the ground.
He gawked at the grass under him, at the solid weight of the green floor. His thoughts couldn’t cobble any sort of logic together to explain it. Simith got his knees under him, trying to gain his bearings. Above him, he glimpsed the stars, a sliver of moon suspended in the sky like a ready scythe. He was no longer in the forest. What magic brought him here? Had he, in his desperation, unwittingly used his own? He touched his chest, his conduit hidden beneath the leathers he wore, but felt no tell-tale heat. If magic had done this, it hadn’t come from him.
He looked behind him and stared at the hole in the ground. A hole he’d carved with his own hands at the top of a tree in the Jaded Grove, a hole that led to…Where? Even the air smelled different.
He glanced around him, but what he saw only disoriented him further. Rows and rows of sunflowers, planted in organized lines like crops. A warm breeze moved between them, shifting them so their round heads waved in greeting. In the distance he heard something. Music. Drums, but unlike any he’d known before. A battle nearby? In a field of sunflowers?
“Where am I?” Simith whispered, just as a hand grabbed his leg.
Chapter Two
"What are you going to do?"
It was a fair question, and not one Jessa hadn't already asked herself, but huddled in her best friend Katie's bathroom as a costume party raged downstairs, staring at the double lines of her third pregnancy test while wearing a bunny costume, she might as well have asked why the sky was blue. Jessa had no answer.
"Now, don’t clam up on me. We have to think," Katie said sharply, annoyed as she always was when Jessa retreated into silence. Still, she moved to sit on the edge of the tub and hugged Jessa gently with one arm. "Let's go over the options one by one."
"Options," Jessa repeated hollowly. "Like what?"
"Well," Katie lifted a shoulder and tilted her head with a grimace. "There's always, you know, not going through with it."
"Oh. No, I don’t think so."
"Be sure," Katie told her firmly. "I'd go with you if you want."
Jessa shook her head. "I appreciate the offer, especially since I know how you feel about that. Maybe it's the answer for others, but it’s not for me."
If Katie was relieved, she had too much class to show it. "All right, then. That's one matter settled: you're having the baby."
"I guess I am," Jessa said faintly. Feeling queasy again, she settled the bathroom’s small trash can on her knees. The sides had tiny bunnies sprinting through patches of clover. Ironic, that. It was enough to keep her from throwing up again.
"What about the father? Would he help you?" She paused. “Do I know him?”
“He was the guest lector on European lit I arranged for my summer students last month.”
“The Danish guy? Seriously?”
“We had dinner the night before he went home. He invited me over to his hotel. Things happened.”
“That’s generally the case when you visit hotel rooms.” Katie eyed her like she’d gone crazy. “What is it with you and blondes? Is this a Filipino thing?”
“I’m pretty sure a variety of peoples like blondes,” she retorted, though inwardly she did admit his platinum gold curls had drawn her attention from the start, so different from her own dark eyes and straight, black hair.
“Blondes change you from my smart, I-speak-three-languages-and-won-an-international-poetry-prize friend into a dope.”
Jessa stared into the trash can and wished Katie wouldn’t mention that award so often. It made it difficult to forget.
“I got swept up in the moment.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“Aren’t poets known for their extravagant romantic side?”
“If that’s the stereotype, you’re the exception.” She hesitated. “Should we call Linda?”
“I’m seeing her in a few days anyway.”
“Still. Maybe this week an extra session would be helpful.”
“She’s the one who encouraged me to do something outside of my routine.”
“I doubt this is what she meant,” Katie said dryly.
True. Her therapist wanted her to stop isolating herself. She likely meant “go bowling with friends,” not “shack up with a guy you barely know and will never see again.” Maybe that’s why she’d done it. A short-lived connection. No surprises, no hollow void to fear if something happened to him. If not for the tingle of chemistry she’d discovered when they met, Ruben would’ve passed through her life without remark. But after six months of overwhelming grief followed by twelve months of complete numbness, she’d finally felt something new. Something bright in the empty fog. She couldn’t help but chase that, though she shouldn’t have done it so recklessly.
“I don’t know what to say,” Jessa murmured. “It was a lonely impulse of delight.”
“If you start quoting Yeats, I’m leaving the room. This was consensual, right? You weren’t drunk?”
She scowled. “I wasn’t.”
“You consensually decided not to use protection?”
“We did use protection…at fir
st.”
“You’re killing me here, Jessa.”
“I did get myself tested afterward. Look, if intelligent decisions had been made, I wouldn’t be peeing on sticks in your bathroom dressed as a bunny rabbit.” She felt sick again and gripped the trash can tightly. “You’re right. I’m an idiot and I deserve everything coming to me.”
Katie rubbed her back. “Take it easy. You’re twenty-three, you have plenty of money from the settlement, and loads of publishing houses ready to gobble up your next work whenever you’re ready. Plus, me as your neighbor. It’s going to be all right.”
Katie meant that kindly, but it only served to remind her that although those things were true, they also weren’t. Yes, her last poetry book had won an award, but she also hadn’t written a word in over a year. Yes, she had plenty of money, but she hadn’t earned that. Airline negligence and a bushel of lawyers were responsible for it, and she’d exchange every dollar for the paycheck-to-paycheck life she’d lived before.
Jessa sighed. “It’s not an execution but it feels like one. At least when you hook up with somebody, there’s no chance of this happening.”
“Yes, lesbians get all the breaks.”
They met each other’s gazes for a moment before breaking out in mutual smirks.
“I’m sorry,” Jessa said. “This is the Big Thirty costume-party birthday extravaganza you’ve been planning, and I’m keeping you from it.”
“It’s just the same old crowd from town down there. They know where the buffet table is and how to dig a drink out of the coolers.” Katie shrugged, tugging back the belled sleeves on the purple sorceress costume. The shimmery material made her red hair stand out like a cascade of flames around her fair face. Or maybe that was the sparkly gold eyeshadow sweeping over Katie’s imperious brown eyes. Cinched at the waist with a leopard skin belt to match her shin-high boots, it looked in many ways less like a costume and more like an outfit her friend might wear on a regular day. Jessa occasionally wondered why someone as vital and filled with life as Katie bothered with a friendship to a person as emotionally washed out as herself. She didn’t know. She was only grateful she did.
Hidden Magic Page 2