The satyr, she noted, could be easily split into two groups. Those who served were much like Gannkis, subservient and somehow less wild than the satyr she was used to. It was nothing obvious, present only in the mannerisms and the way they carried themselves. Those satyr from Tir Rhu’thin lounged at the tables drinking and eating or dancing to the ever-present flutes. They looked at their cousins with clear contempt. Over time disdain gave way to dismissal and finally they ignored them.
The numbers continued to grow until the plaza couldn’t possibly hope to contain them. The fae stretched as far as she could see, leaning against decrepit doorways, crouching on rooftops or simply standing in the streets. Those closest to the plaza drank wine that had been passed to them but many simply watched.
They seemed wilder, these fae. Many were dressed in leathers or pelts whilst still others sported glamours that had them entwined in ivy that seemed to sprout from their bare feet. At least she assumed it was a glamour. She paused, thinking about it as Aervern glared at her, holding her empty goblet.
Aelthen sat in the centre of the high table sipping at a cup as his eyes swept over the gathering. He rose slowly to his feet, allowing his movement to still the tongues of those about him rather than calling for silence himself. He stood for a long moment, simply looking at the assembled fae and satyr before he spoke.
“Long years were we trapped in the cold, the Outside. I have dreamt of this return so many times, that all of this scarcely seems real. Yet real it is, and I rejoice that we are able to breathe the sweet air of our homeland once more.” A cheer rose up and he held a hand up for silence as he continued.
“The days pass more slowly in the Outside. Long ages have my huntsmen and I lost as the years flitted past here, turning just as the leaves flick in the winds. Now we have finally returned and I find my people are as a shadow of what they once were.” One hand gestured to the deer roasting on spits over the coals as he spoke. “Never in my time would we have stooped to burning meat over hateful flame. Never would we have treated our brothers of the hunt in the fashion you now do, gelding them as if they are common beasts.”
Miriam could see the faces of those closest to Aervern growing grim and it must have been obvious even to Aelthen as he lifted a hand again to stem the growing whispers and angry mutters.
“I do not hold my children as superior, or claim they are the only true fae. I only say much has changed in the time we were locked away. The treachery of those who were once our servants has taken its toll upon all of our peoples. You are much changed from the people we left behind when we embarked upon that last hunt. There is much that could divide us, but instead I call for unity. Let the court be united in purpose as we recapture the glory of our people. There is much we can teach you, glyph-lore and a thousand uses for the Lady’s Gift. In return, I ask only that we join under one banner. I would lead you to the Land of Our Lady. Lead you so that we might remove the infestation that pollutes that place. That land that was truly meant to be our own.
“Since our return I have led my children through the Worldtrails. I have passed through to the Land of Our Lady, and led our people on the Wild Hunt. I have seen what they have become. Those scattered few manlings that ran from us, those that fled from battle and through the Worldtrails rather than face us with honour, they have bred like maggots in rotten meat. They infest our promised land, covering the earth like a blanket of filth. They have bred beyond control and now they must be culled. Our promised land will be reclaimed!”
He fell silent and the silence spread out from him, enveloping the plaza until the only sound was the faint hiss of fat falling from the roasting meat onto the coals. The cheer when, it came, grew all at once. Starting as one voice, and then becoming a roar as the fae stood in concert and cried out their support. Miriam looked in horror at the assembled figures with their fists held high. Among the throng only Aervern and Tauntha remained seated, their faces telling different tales. Aervern’s one of horror, whilst Tauntha’s face was etched deep with resignation as she beheld a destiny that she had likely long seen coming.
The music was swift to follow the cheers and fae and satyr alike moved out onto the floor to dance to a tune too wild and frenetic for Miriam to really follow. Fae’reeth flitted through the air over the feast, forming their own dance over the heads of the fae below.
“A human!” A deep voice spoke, penetrating the wonder she’d felt for a moment. “An old one at that. Can you be the one they have been speaking of? The Wyrde Reaver?”
She turned to see the figure wreathed in smoke-like fog stood before her. “Blessed One,” she acknowledged him with as deep a curtsy as she could manage. “Ha! And versed in our tongue no less. It seems the Returned have trained you well.” The voice seemed delighted, but with the face shrouded in the glamour it was hard to tell. As if reading her thoughts the fae reached up to its head, pulling the fog that was formed into the rough shape of a horned helm back over its head until it was reformed as a cowl thrown back on its shoulders.
“I am known as the Lord of Mists,” the fae said as he smiled. “I expect many among the Returned will come to know my name before much time has passed. Now, tell me, are you truly this ‘Wyrde Reaver’ I have been hearing about?”
How to respond to that? “I am, Blessed One.” Miriam replied, making sure her head was slightly bowed in submission.
“And now you belong to little Aervern, is that right?”
“My mistress made a gift of me, Blessed One.”
“A pity you were not fortunate enough to be placed under a fae of greater stature. Little Aervern has been riding Tauntha’s tail for as long as I can remember.”
What did this creature want? “Truly, Blessed One. My new mistress spoke of you before attending the feast. I must say meeting you in the flesh far outstrips the tales she told.”
The fae were not immune to flattery and Miriam had to stifle a laugh as the creature basked in the compliment, almost seeming to preen in front of her. “Come, dance with me, human. You can tell me more of what little Aervern said of the Lord of Mists.”
Miriam glanced past him to the whirling figures and shook her head violently. “I couldn’t possibly, Blessed One!” she gasped. “My old bones could never match your pace and I would mar your own perfection with my stumbling.”
“Nonsense.” He moved in a blur and took her by the wrist, leading her out among the dancers as a father would pull a wayward child. He leaned close, “Only a fool lets the music set the pace. The dance belongs to the dancers.” He pulled her into a complicated series of steps that passed through the melody and rhythm of the flutes, coming close enough to brush the beat they set, but then drifting off into its own arrangement before returning to visit once more. They moved slowly, passing both fae and satyr leaping and spinning to a much faster beat yet somehow it did not seem out of place. It was as alien a thing as Miriam had experienced in all her years in their world but yet, on some strange level, it made sense. The dance had a beauty that moved beyond the music and she found herself smiling despite herself.
He quizzed her as they danced. Questions that seemed to bear no relation to each other, ranging from Aervern, to how many cups she’d filled that night, to Tir Rhu’thin and the humans there. Eventually he stopped, leading her out of the dance. “I’ll return your pet now, Aervern,” he said as he pulled Miriam into the space between them. “She’s an entertaining thing, though worthless given she can no longer breed.”
“Caraviel,” Aervern replied, inclining her head politely. His smile twisted at the sound of what Miriam assumed must be his real name and, giving the briefest of bows, he dropped Miriam’s arm and turned on his heel.
The feast went on long into the night and Miriam lost count of the number of times she refilled cups or was pulled out onto the floor by fae or satyr. The fae seemed capable of eating, drinking, and dancing without limit. Aervern finally dismissed her and she fought to make her way through the revelry in search of her bed, slapping a
way the hands of the satyr who sought to drag her back to dance. She glanced back once at Aervern and the image stayed with her long after the tables were out of sight. Aervern, tearing at a slab of venison with her teeth and bare hands. The meat so rare that it bordered on raw, the blood running freely down her chin as it caught in the firelight.
Chapter Three
Aervern woke her with a gentle shake and Miriam sat up in the bed, rubbing at eyes that didn’t want to open. The darkness of true night was gone but it didn’t quite feel like the day had started.
“I would not wish to take from your rest,” the fae woman apologised. “We have tasks this day and I would speak with you before we need to begin them.” She rose from where she perched at the end of the bed. “Dress. I will arrange for food to be made ready.”
Miriam pulled herself upright as the fae left. The smooth floors felt odd under bare feet. She was too used to the roughly fashioned hut that Ileriel had kept her in. She shook her head, and then her eyes grew wide as she realised what she was seeing. Where her tattered robe had hung the night before over an ornate rail set against one corner, now a selection awaited her. She ran the fine fabrics over her fingers. Silks, satins, and fabrics she couldn’t even name. Robes of every colour and design, dresses she would have blushed to wear when she still had the looks for them. They must have been brought in whilst she was sleeping, but where had they even come from? Since she had arrived in Tira Scyon she had yet to see a single trade being performed. The satyr worked the fields and provided fruit and meat but who made the clothes? Who made the knives and pots she’d seen in the kitchen? In Tir Rhu’thin these things had largely been done by the slaves, but even then there had been some things which were just there. She’d been too fuddled by Ileriel's mind to notice it, but now that she thought of it there were many things that didn’t make sense.
She caught herself, suddenly aware of the time that she’d wasted, and picked out a simple white dress with an odd belt that tied at the waist in an elaborate clasp, dressing quickly and heading down to meet Aervern.
The fae sat in the courtyard, a selection of fruits and honeycakes set out before her. “Sit. Eat.” She waved a hand at the food set before her and waited as Miriam eased herself down into the cushions.
“I would tell you of some things whilst you eat. Do not interrupt me, I will have questions of my own for you once I am finished.” She somehow managed to make the sentence sound like a question and looked at Miriam intently, holding her gaze, until she nodded.
“I spoke of how those that have returned present a challenge for my people? You will have seen some of these things as we entered their enclave here. Even that, my calling it an enclave, is a sign of the problem. There has been no gift to them, no ceding of power or right. This enclave is merely an empty portion of Tira Scyon in which they were allowed to rest during their stay here. Already we speak of it as being theirs, of belonging to them.” She waved a hand, brushing the thoughts aside. “It is of little importance now.”
Miriam picked up a honeycake and nibbled at it in silence as Aervern leant forward, placing a hand on the low table. “You saw the glyphs at work amongst the Returned when we visited them?” Miriam nodded. “You have seen these things before, at Tir Rhu’thin, of course. Here though, here that knowledge is lost. We have no glyphs and none among us has the knowledge of how to imbue them with what grace we are given.” She paused and took a deep breath before she continued. It was a very human act and Miriam caught herself. These creatures were not human, she reminded herself. It would be all too easy to fall into the trap Aervern was obviously setting for her. To allow herself to accept this feigned friendship the creature offered. The only difference between Aervern and Ileriel was the city and their names.
“You see what it is that Aelthen offers, do you not?” Aervern didn’t wait for her to answer. “His offer is benevolent on the surface, but like the frozen lakes in the Lightless Steppes it is a trap. The ice is too brittle. The waters, and the creatures that lurk beneath the surface, hunger for anything foolish enough to attempt it. Aelthen’s offer is much the same. Likely you did not hear this when you were serving at the feast but, already, names are fashioned for us. Wildfae they call us. As if we are some pitiful satyr lost to lust and madness in the woods. Already I have some of my own people look upon them and call them Trueborn or Highfae. This is how it begins, Miriam. This is how my people will be enslaved.”
She snatched up a goblet Miriam hadn’t even noticed was there, draining it of the wine it held in long, graceless gulps. “What was the mood of those you served last evening? How did they look upon Aelthen?”
“They were certainly admiring,” Miriam hedged
Aervern slammed the goblet down onto the table, the anger coming fast and terrible. “Do not clasp your thoughts so tightly to your breast, human. I could rifle through your memories in moments if I but chose. If I wanted a witless slave such as those from Tir Rhu’thin keep their humans I would have kept you as such.” She forced down her anger with a visible effort. “It is your opinions I want. Tell me what those wise eyes of yours saw.”
Miriam uncurled slowly from the fetal ball she’d recoiled into. There was a desperation clear in the woman’s amber eyes. Despite everything she found herself beginning to hope.
“What do you offer in return?”
Aervern rocked back as if she’d struck her. “You dare?”
Miriam waited, keeping her face impassive as she fought down the rising fear.
“I feed you, give you shelter, and more,” Aervern told her in a voice made all the more dreadful for its icy calm. “You are free of the Returned. Free of the Touch. I owe you nothing.”
Miriam looked down at her hands, the wrinkles and calluses marking out her years as a slave. “I’m an old woman, Aervern. Most of my life has been spent as a slave to Ileriel. I don’t imagine I have many years left to me. If you want my thoughts, my help, you’ll have to offer me something in return.”
The fae’s eyes narrowed in thought as she looked at her, measuring her. “What would you ask of me?”
“Nothing more than I have asked already.” Miriam told her. “Return me to my home, to my own world.”
Aervern stood, throwing her arms into the air. “Have you not heeded a single word I have spoken to you? That knowledge is lost to us. I could no more pass through the Worldtrails than I could imbue a single moonorb. Your only path to your home lies with the Returned.” She fell silent, watching as Miriam collapsed in on herself. “I will make you this oath, however. Should a way present itself I will aid you however I am able.” Miriam’s eyes shot up at that and Aervern met her gaze with one as stern as hers was hopeful. “You must understand what I offer here risks my life and those of my people. If you betray me, human, singers will refuse to tell the horrors of your ending.”
Miriam nodded once, silent, as the fae sank back down to the pillows.
“Now, tell me of the feast. Begin with the Lord of Mists.”
***
Miriam cursed as the hem of her robe caught on another branch. She freed it quickly, stabbing herself on the thorns as she did so. Aervern was already ahead of her, following at a respectful distance from Aelthen and Tauntha. If Miriam didn’t hurry she’d lose sight of all of them.
She forced her legs into a slow trot, ignoring the twinge of pain from her hips and knees as she rushed through the forest. Aervern watched her, looking back over one shoulder with a faintly amused expression.
“Like someone watching a new pet,” she muttered to herself in briefest of whispers. She regretted it instantly and fought to keep the guilty expression from her face as she gauged the fae’s eyes. Had she heard her? It was impossible to tell.
She fell back into a walk beside Aervern. At least the creature didn’t insist she walk three paces behind her or some other such nonsense. A glance to the right showed Ileriel, Aelthen’s escort, some fifty yards away, as she passed easily through the trees. As if she’d felt Miriam’
s eyes upon her she glanced at the old woman. Her eyes were flat as she regarded Miriam with cold disinterest, and then turned away.
“How you do propose to proceed?” Tauntha asked as she walked, her voice carrying easily through the trees.
“The humans have grown in numbers, far beyond what we could ever have imagined. Though they are pitiful creatures, even the strongest shade cat could be brought down by enough rats. The full strength of our race will be required if we are to succeed.” His look was direct and clearly conveyed a meaning that was lost on Miriam as she listened in silence.
“You do not know what you ask,” Tauntha said after a moment. “They were given their choice and they have made their oaths. They have gone to the wilds and owe nothing to Tira Scyon. They will not return. They will not listen.”
Aelthen met her eyes and turned to look out through the forest. “I am not of Tira Scyon. I was Lord of the Hunt before your banished were ever born. I am a figure returned from an age of myth and legend. I am as much a tale to them as the Mistress of Shadows or Firla Flameseeker. I am a song made flesh. They will listen to me and when the call goes out, they will come.”
Tauntha stopped as she considered this. It was a handful of breaths before she spoke again. “Still, it is a risk you propose. I could not say where they reside or guess at their numbers. This is a thornsnake you suggest we snatch up blind, not knowing if we grasp the head or the tail.”
“You speak of risks?” Aelthen gave a mirthless chuckle. “Do you know how it is I came to this form? How I came to be satyri? A thousand nights and more I spent basking in the light of Our Lady’s full strength. Years spent hoarding her Grace and fleeing from the rays of her jealous brother. I shunned the chase and those who would tempt me to squander this power. I became a mockery of what it means to be a satyr and few were those who would suffer my presence. Do you suppose I received some signal when the time was right? That there was a great light from the heavens or that Our Lady herself spoke to me? No. There was merely the risk of attempting it, and failing, wasting years of effort and endured scorn for naught. Do not speak to me of risks.” He led off again, moving through the trees in silence as he looked into the distance.
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