He could not stop thinking about the terrible things Rosheen had told him. In twenty years, she had said little about herself and now Padric questioned how well he truly knew her. He knew she was immortal, like all Fae, but he could not picture her living outside of his awareness. It always felt as if they had grown up together, and while she was wise in the ways of the world, she often acted the flighty child. If the fireside tales were true, the Goblin Kings were overthrown almost a thousand years ago at the Battle of Nine Crowns, an event that had become little more than myth to the few people who remembered to recount it.
Padric’s mother used to tell him the story of wicked Jerrod the Second, last of the Goblin Kings and his iniquitous son, the Gaunt Prince. Both father and son met their downfall at the hands of the Fae-folk rebels and their allies, intent on restoring their immortal Elf King to his rightful seat. Jerrod himself was thrown from the balcony of his castle by one of his slaves. A little girl, if the story could be believed. The Gaunt Prince was in the field when his father died, making war on the Fae rebels with his unstoppable metal killers the Forge Born. The legend said the Fae crafted a powerful spell, creating a magical heart within the Forge Born. In grief over their bloody deeds, they cast down their weapons, leaving the Gaunt Prince to face the Fae armies with only his fanatically devoted goblin soldiers. In the end of the story, it always came down to three: King Goban Blackmud of the gnomes, Aillila Ulvyeh, daughter of the Elf King and the Gaunt Prince himself, a merciless warrior and wielder of dread powers. Goban Blackmud was the only survivor of that terrible conflict, the victory restoring the Elf King to the throne of the Seelie Court, at the cost of his only child.
Padric delighted in hearing the tale when he was small. Goban Blackmud was his favorite character. Once, he even spent an eve spinning the tale for Rosheen, who sat listening intently, making engaged noises of shock and fear at all the best parts. Fool child that he was. It came to him now that not only had Rosheen lived through the events that to him were nothing but bedtime rhymes, she may have witnessed them firsthand.
The forest grew close around them, thick with bramble, and what little light remained of the day barely penetrated the dense cluster of black limbs and crimson leaves. Even with night approaching quickly, Padric was glad they had not stayed in the tower. The folk of his village were a fearful lot, despite the fort and its warriors. Their ways were bred into him. The irony that he was one of the things they feared was not lost on Padric, but every beast fears the larger predator, and the wilds were nothing if not a great, hungry hunter waiting to swallow the foolish or the unwary.
As the night pressed in around them, Padric found that he was both. In avoiding the phantom peril of the tower, he had led them straight into the very palpable dangers of the forest without enough time to even build a fire, the most basic illusion of shelter and safety. Padric fought the panic rising from his stomach and barred it from reaching his head. He stopped and looked around at the thick black columns that had once been tree trunks, strangely elusive in the feeble moonlight. Beyond the trail, the forest was too wild, too dense and overgrown to find a proper camp. They would have to fight through thick bracken, boulders and marauding hedge to move just a few feet. If they waited out the night on the trail with no fire, they risked freezing, but making a fire while so exposed was a beacon for anything that might cause them harm. There was no choice, they had to press on.
“Rosheen,” he said calmly. “We will need some light.”
A hollow intake of air issued from Rosheen’s silhouette. A faint glow appeared, illuminating her cupped hands. Padric could now see Rosheen’s face, her mouth pressed tightly into her hands. With each breath, she seemed to suck more light into the hollow behind her fingers, until she and Padric were bathed in a soft blue glow. Rosheen gently unfolded her fingers, revealing a shimmering blue blaze of cold fire that danced just above her left palm. The forest around them was now visible for several yards in every direction, the trees casting eerily dancing shadows across the path.
“Better stay close.” Padric said and jerked a thumb towards his shoulders. Rosheen flew over and sat atop his pack, her legs straddling the back of Padric’s neck. From here she could see over his head and direct the light to fall along the path. Padric drew the seax, a comforting weight in his grip. Armed now with knife and light, he set off down the trail at a cautious pace, keeping his eyes as much on the trail as on the forest to either side. It grew cold quickly and Padric felt Rosheen shiver against the back of his neck. He stopped and carefully drew his hood up over his head and her body. He mused at the thought of the villagers seeing him now, stalking forward in the dark, long knife in hand, Faery-fire glowing from the deepness of his hood. They would need a new name for him then. He smiled. Fancies of tormenting his clan gave Padric a sinister courage and kept his mind from envisioning what could be lurking just outside the nimbus of Rosheen’s conjured fire.
He was not entirely certain what to do, so he kept moving, in hopes that some solace would present itself before long or discover that his steps had brought them to the sunrise. His feet were getting numb from the cold and the hard trail, but he kept walking, knowing that to halt would only invite the fear at the edge of his mind, at the edge of the light, to sweep in and feast upon them. His world shrank to the small patch of lit path in front of him, flanked by the ever present trees, cold suffocating sentinels, guarding against the return of hope.
Padric stopped abruptly on the trail. He held his breath, taut and rigid. He felt it creep in. After the long, stark silence of the forest, it was not difficult to detect. Life. Somewhere in the woods, off the trail, to the left. Some strange sense between hearing and touch told him it was out there, skulking in the dark. But it was not dark. He saw it now, a warm glow, pulsing through the slits between the horrible trees. Firelight.
“Rosh,” he hissed and the blue glow of Faery-fire died.
Padric stood for a moment, fearing the firelight had been a cruel trick of the eye, but as Rosheen’s light died, the distant glow remained.
“A camp?” Rosheen asked from inside the hood.
Padric nodded and continued down the trail, keeping the mysterious fire in sight. Within a few minutes the light was almost directly to their left, some distance into the forest where the trees grew less dense. A voice issued from the woods, causing Padric to duck down instinctively. It was faint and low and Padric realized it was not directed at him. Someone was out there, with a fire, speaking in the dead of night amongst the trees. It was a man’s voice, Padric was certain.
“Find a good high branch and stay there,” he whispered to Rosheen.
“I can look easier than you.”
“No. Folk in the wilds can be suspicious of Fae. Best I go.”
Padric felt Rosheen wriggle out from under the hood and fly upwards. “Tread softly.” It was difficult to make his way, despite the ambient light from his destination. He picked carefully through the trees, wincing at the loud crushing of leaves under each step. Low, unseen branches scraped and tickled unpleasantly at his face as he slid along, half-blind. The thick, pleasant smell of something cooking flitted into Padric’s nostrils, pulling him closer, knife still in hand. The voice grew closer, easier to discern. Padric caught the intonation of a question, but not the words. If there was a response, Padric could not hear it. He could see the fire clearly now, bright between the trees. A tall figure moved around the flames, tending a stewpot hung in the center.
Padric doubted he could get any closer without being heard and trying to sneak up on someone in the dark was not likely to further their hospitality. He had to make a choice and he had to make it quickly. Rosheen was out there, alone in the cold. Gripping his knife tighter, Padric knelt down close beside the nearest tree.
“Ho the camp!” he yelled. The tall figure quickly rose and fetched something close to hand, turning sharply to face Padric’s direction.
“Who calls?” the figure barked back steadily.
“A travel
er seeking only warmth! Not to give or receive harm!”
A moment’s pause. “Come ahead, then!” the figure called.
Padric rose slowly and reluctantly sheathed the seax. He made his way noisily over to the fire, noting the figure kept his back to the blaze so as not to blind himself. As Padric entered the clearing he saw the figure was indeed a man, tall and lean of body and face. He wore the rough clothes of a woodsman, skullcap pulled tight, his long, hooked nose and sunken cheeks cut sharply in the shadows created by the firelight. A grizzled vulture, the man appeared older than Padric’s father. A great chopping axe rested easily in his large, knotty hands.
“A kindness,” Padric said. “I thank you.” He made his way over to the fire, to give credence to his claim and allowed the man a chance to look him over.
“Foolish to wander these woods at night,” the man said, pulling a horseshoe from his belt and holding it out to Padric.
“It is that,” Padric agreed, taking it. Their eyes locked for a moment and then the woodsman nodded, taking back the horseshoe. Padric’s heart sank. Rosheen would not be welcome here.
The man put his axe aside, but not too far, and went back to tending the stewpot. At a glance it was clear that this was no camp, but the man’s home. A small, wickerwork hut sat atop a small rise in the land, several dozen paces from the fire. A woodshed and charcoal billet were near to the hut, also well out of the small depression where the fire was built. No doubt the man kept a small herd of pigs close by, left to forage in the surrounding woods.
“Don’t you go begging now. We eat shortly,” the man said. Padric turned to answer this blunt offer of food only to find that the man was facing away, not speaking to him at all. Padric was surprised to see a small child, a girl, hunkered down on the other side of the fire. Her knees were drawn up to her chin, the soot blackened toes of her grubby bare feet stuck out beneath the hem of her ragged dress. So tight was she rolled into herself that all Padric could see of her face were the wide eyes, terribly beautiful in their vulnerability, framed by shiny tresses of near white blond hair. After so many hours in the dark woods, the harsh light of the flames must have caused Padric to miss her when he entered the clearing.
“Good evening, little miss. My name is Padric.” He smiled at her. The girl stared at him briefly then looked back into the flames.
“Not get a word from that one,” the man said gruffly. “Nary a squeak since she took ill.”
Padric kept his face friendly. “She seems fit now.”
The man turned his lips down and shook his head. “She’s not spoke nor barely eaten in close on a week.”
“She will, now the sickness is out of her,” Padric replied.
“Aye,” the woodsman nodded. “Close thing. Thought to lose her.”
“She yours?” Padric asked.
A nod. “My woman and I had her late. Born at night, she was. Breath left the wife before sunrise. Named her Maeve, after her mother.”
“She is beautiful,” Padric said.
“And she will stay here, when you go,” said the man pointedly.
Padric said nothing and turned back to the warmth of the fire. He did not sit or remove his pack and was careful to keep his hood well in place, this man seemed just the sort to believe in the curses that had plagued Padric his whole life. He could not afford to linger, for Rosheen’s sake, but departing so soon after arriving would only arouse further suspicion in the woodsman, a sort already slow to trust. He was a rustic and lived by a certain code, made necessary by the harsh dangers of the wild woods. A spot of food and a place to sleep by the fire would certainly be offered with the understanding that Padric leave at first light, unless some chore was asked of him, wood chopping or the like. To accept these things and steal away in the night was knavery at its most pure. No, Padric needed to leave before he took from these people.
Padric began slowly. “I hope you will forgive me, good man, but for my sister’s safety I came to you alone. Now that I see all is well, might I fetch her from the forest to share your hospitality?”
The woodsman leapt up and flung Padric to the ground before he could react. He hit the dirt face down, his pack bunching heavily behind his head, blinding him in the depths of his hood. His hands were jerked behind him and pinned heavily at the base of his spine with a sharp knee.
“Look here!” the woodsman’s voice was full of discovery and anger.
Padric felt the seax being drawn out of its sheath between his lower back and his helpless hands.
“Think to fetch your boys!?” the woodsman demanded. “More cutthroats to have done with me and mine?!”
“No,” was all Padric could manage, his face pressed awkwardly into the sooty earth.
“You lie to me, you bastard…,” came the calm promise, “…and I’ll do for you what your skulking lads had in mind for me.”
“I am not false.” Padric struggled for air in the gritty pocket around his mouth. “My sister…out there. She is small. I feared for her…came in alone. Swear it!”
There was a sudden, short thud next to Padric’s head and the pressure came off his hands. He pushed himself up several inches from the ground and breathed deeply. He turned his head and moved the hood aside to find his seax stuck blade first into the ground, inches from his face. He left it there and stood quickly, spinning around to find the woodsman facing him, empty-handed, with a look of calm menace on his face.
“Best go get her then,” the woodsman said.
Padric tried to keep the murder from his eyes and swallowed the bitter mixture of shame and fear that brewed after being overpowered by another. His clothes were dirty, uncomfortably pulling at his body in haphazard places. He felt weak, violated and useless, wanting nothing more than to pull the seax from the ground and bury it in the woodsman’s guts. Looking over the fire, he saw the girl, her huge fear-filled eyes darting between her father and him. Their eyes met over the flames and Padric detected a plea behind the watery orbs that all but dominated her small, pale face. A plea that came from someone more helpless than he. Leaving the knife in the dirt, Padric turned his back on the pair and went back into the dark of the woods.
Fire-blind, Padric cursed aloud as he clumsily stumbled through the undergrowth. He was free of the wretched woodsman and his waif, alive and on his way, but leaving the knife behind was a cruel twist. Returning to Fafnir without the weapon was unthinkable, but Padric could think of no clever way to retrieve it that did not involve violence between himself and the woodsman. Violence from which Padric was unlikely to emerge the victor. He cursed again, furious at himself for allowing things to turn so wrong. Rosheen would tell him to forget the knife, she did not understand the importance of such things, but Padric had no choice, he must get it back.
His foot came down and there was no ground to meet it. He stumbled hard in the dark, grabbing blindly at the trees to steady himself, but he could not stop his slide down the unseen embankment. There was a splash as his misstep landed at last, hip deep in the icy embrace of a leaf covered pool. The darkness of the forest and his own black thoughts had gotten him off track. Padric almost let out a scream at the ill-luck of it all.
Raven-touched.
He slogged his way a short distance to the edge of the pool and found two thin trees growing only a few feet apart. Grasping the trunks, he prepared to haul himself out of the water when a pale face emerged from the darkness between the trees. Startled, Padric slipped back into the water.
Maeve put a small, pallid finger to her lips and cast a look back over her shoulder, her white hair slinging wispily around. She turned back again, just as quickly and fixed Padric with her voluminous eyes.
“Do you go to your sister now?” Her voice pierced the dark in a whisper.
Padric gaped. He was cold in the water and despite the girl-child in front of him, felt very alone in the forest.
“Take me,” Maeve hissed, not waiting for his response.
“Maeve?” Padric managed. “Your father…�
�� He began shivering.
“He is not my father,” she said. “He stole me. Killed my parents. We must be away!” Her voice grew desperate, frightened. She threw frightful looks all about them, her eyes, hair, never still. Her face twisted into a pitiable spasm of despair. “He will not let me eat! He…he…I am so hungry!” She was almost sobbing. “He…uses me.”
Padric’s chill body went cold. So cold he stopped shivering. He wanted to kill the woodsman before. Out of rage. He wanted to hurt him now. Slow and grievous.
“Please. Can we go to your sister now?” she pleaded. “He will know I am gone.”
Padric shushed her gently. “It will be alright, Maeve. You are safe. Come. We will go.”
She nodded feebly, holding out her hand to help him from the pool.
“Padric, get away from her!” Rosheen’s voice snapped through the darkness.
The strange glow of blue fire settled around them as Rosheen glided down from the treetops. She hovered above them, the Faery-fire dancing in her hand, the other outstretched. “Walk to me,” she told Padric.
“Don’t let her take me,” Maeve whispered.
“Enough of your mummery, gruagach-bitch.” Rosheen said. “I know you. Padric…to me.”
Padric looked from Rosheen to the girl. His childhood friend’s once cheery face was etched in shimmering light, cast in a baleful mask that never left the quavering, frightened form of skinny little Maeve, cowering behind the trees.
“Rosh…,” he started.
“She is no little girl, Padric. She is gruagach. And I name her. Be off, skinchanger! There is no child here for you!”
Maeve hid her face behind her arm and wept loudly, quaking with fear. Padric turned back to Rosheen, confused and angry, ready to force her to end this torment. He took a step toward her and froze. The girl’s sobs had changed; quicker, higher, rasping. She was laughing. Her voice came out from behind her arm in a reedy creak.
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 6