“Much has changed here. Our numbers are diminished greatly from my time, our people once covered this world. Is this truly all we are now? What of the Carnath? What of Tir Riviel? Of the Singing Woods?”
Tauntha shook her head. “All gone, all fallen.”
“All?”
“The Carnath sought to rule. They rejected the Ivy Throne, and the Court, and marched upon the people of the Singing Woods in a bid to claim them. Theirs is a sad tale I do not wish to recount but both are long gone now and Carnath itself is nothing more than a collection of charred stones. Tir Riviel is deserted. Its people left this realm just a handful of centuries after the Wyrde rose. They sought the home of the manlings, though none remembered the ways. Perhaps they found them. Perhaps they wander the Worldtrails still.” She lifted her eyes from the trail. “Are the numbers of the humans truly as great as you say?”
Aelthen nodded. “Greater. Their number seems beyond count. As well guess at the number of leaves in the forest.”
“You propose a slaughter then?” Her words were light but even from the distance they followed at Miriam could see the anger than played just below the surface of Aelthen’s eyes.
“I propose to reclaim what is rightfully ours. The Land of Our Lady was found using our arts. The humans would never have discovered the power of glyphs had we not taken them to serve us. The knowledge was given to them and they have abused it. Their betrayal is without peer. They turned the grace of Our Lady into a mere tool, an insult to every fae that ever drew breath. They fashioned their devices to harness her like a beast of burden. Then they rebelled, and when it became clear we would not suffer them to live, they fled. Of all the places the might have fled to, why there? It combines insult and betrayal in one act.” He snarled out the words, eyes flaring as he spoke.
“No, Tauntha. I will not flinch from your words. I do propose a slaughter. I propose we wade, hip-deep through their blood, until only a manageable number remain. These we will keep in their proper place, in the breeding pens. Our people will rise to greatness once more and we will know revenge.” He fell silent and for long minutes the only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the cracking of twigs under Miriam’s feet.
“What of the Ivy Throne?” Aelthen asked then. “It is empty?”
“It is,” Tauntha sighed. “Empty since before you, yourself, left this land I believe?”
Aelthen nodded, half-listening as he stroked his long beard with one hand. “I should have thought it claimed by one of the houses.”
Tauntha laughed then, an ugly, bitter sound at odds with the beauty of her face. “The houses are all but gone, Aelthen. Did you not say it yourself? We are a shadow of what we once were. A fae child is born maybe once in a hundred births. The number of fae’reeth begin to challenge the stars in the skies and I could not tell you how many satyr choose the wilds. My own daughter, Aervern, was one of the last fae born to us. Our numbers dwindle as each fae passes. Though it would pain you to admit it, we need the humans.”
Aelthen drew back as if she’d slapped his face. His face grew dark and Miriam felt Aervern stiffen beside her as her hand crept to the small of her back.
“We need them as the flower needs the bee,” he said in a dreadful, quiet voice. “They are a means to an end, a tool, and those we choose to keep will be treated as such. Among all who remain among the fae you should have learnt these lessons. You have lived long enough to know how far we have fallen.”
He shook his head then, as if shaking off the conversation. “What of you? Why have you not claimed the throne yourself? Your daughter herself called you ruler here.”
Tauntha glanced back at Aervern and shook her head, an odd expression playing over her features. “I do not truly rule. I lack the support to mount a successful bid for the throne. The rule of Tira Scyon, of what fae remain, is a tenuous thing lying between myself and Variska, the Light of the ‘Reeth.”
Aelthen raised an eyebrow at that, genuine surprise on his face “A Fae’reeth? Truly? I would not have thought one of them capable.”
Tauntha nodded. “She is ancient, far older than I, though she seldom leaves the tree and her swarm now. There are a score or more of self-styled lords who would reach for the throne but their game, of houses long-fallen, is little more than petty squabbles. They have not the influence or the numbers to make a true claim.”
Aelthen waved the response away. “Enough of this. Our Lady will be full and glorious as she fills the skies no longer than a handful of nights from now. I will take my children, and all that choose to come, on The Hunt. Will you come and see for yourself of what I speak? Of what the manlings have become?”
Tauntha shook her head with a laugh. “You flatter me, Huntmaster, but these bones are too old for the Worldtrails. My daughter perhaps?” She looked back at Aervern with a raised eyebrow. Aervern fell still under their attention and nodded once. Beside her, Miriam kept her face impassive but within her a desperate hope took shape.
***
Aervern stepped out into the courtyard behind Gannkis as he carried the tray of honeycakes and fruits to Miriam’s small table. It had become a morning ritual of sorts, Aervern would join her for breakfast and question her on the events of the previous day. Half the time, in fact, most of the time, Miriam didn’t understand what it was Aervern was looking for. She seemed to focus on the most unlikely of events but, as the night of the full moon drew closer, she seemed increasingly anxious.
Aervern sat down into the cushions with a fluid elegance that would have made a dancer weep while Gannkis set down the tray. A human would have sunk down or simply collapsed into the cushions. Miriam herself struggled to sit in the cushions and retain any shred of dignity. She smiled a greeting as she reached for one of the honeycakes.
“Did you sleep well?” Miriam asked, prodding a gentle smile out onto her face even as it fought to run and hide. She couldn’t really care less if the fae had slept well or not. What she wanted was to understand what this creature really wanted from her.
“We do not truly sleep,” Aervern was saying. “Not as your kind do. To say we take rest would be closer. It is hard to explain.”
Miriam nodded.
Aervern picked at a cake, breaking off small pieces barely larger than crumbs. “I would know your thoughts of Aelthen’s intentions.”
Miriam coughed on the honey cake, the seeds and nuts spraying from her lips and bouncing against her raised hand. The fae woman looked at her, her amber eyes intent, clearly waiting for her to begin. “You want to know what I think of Aelthen’s plans? His plans to travel to my world and slaughter my people?”
“That was my question, yes.”
Miriam stared at the woman for a moment and shook her head in wonder. “I think—” she began but cut off as Aervern sprang to her feet and looked about wildly. She clapped a hand over her mouth and sprinted across the small courtyard. Miriam stared after her as Aervern ran to a tall clay urn and bent over it, retching and heaving.
“Aervern!” she struggled to her feet and hobbled after her on legs gone stiff from sitting.
The fae was pale and shaking. She shrugged off Miriam’s hands as she reached for her and wiped at her mouth with one trembling hand.
“Are you sick?” Miriam asked.
Aervern sneered at the notion. “We fae do not get, ‘sick’.” She went back to the table and snatched up a goblet of wine. “I do not understand this. It has been the same most mornings for days now.”
Miriam’s eyes widened. “Days?”
Aervern nodded. “Always the same. I catch the scent of these cakes and then I am…as you saw. I do not understand this. The aroma is not unpleasant.”
Miriam looked at the fae curiously. “Aervern, could you be pregnant?”
“What would this retching have to do with that?”
“Women often find that they become sick in the early stages,” Miriam said with a shrug. “For most it’s something that passes.”
“Fae females do not
suffer from this.” Her voice was firm but her eyes darted about under a tight frown. She was hiding something.
“Ileriel would sometimes have me serve those fae who’d visited the breeding pens in Tir Rhu’thin,” Miriam said, the words coming slow and cautious. “Morning sickness was not unknown amongst them.”
“Fae do not get sick.” Aervern glared at her, biting off the words.
Miriam ignored her. “Those carrying a human child did.” She fell silent as Aervern’s head sank down into her hands.
“What is it for then, this sickness?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What purpose does it serve?” Aervern asked her.
“Purpose?” Miriam shook her head.
“All things have a purpose when birthing a child,” Aervern stated, brooking no argument. “The urge to eat increases, providing food for the babe. The teats grow, and ready themselves for milk. What purpose does this retching serve?”
Miriam laughed but stifled it at Aervern’s expression. “I don’t think it works like that, Aervern.” Her smile faded. “Really? Fae women don’t get morning sickness? Ever?”
The woman shook her head firmly. “Never.”
Miriam fell silent. If Aervern was pregnant it was by a human. She thought back, had the fae ever told her she had never met humans? If what she’d told her of the Wyrde and the Returned was true, she couldn’t have. But then how could she be pregnant? The thoughts tumbled over themselves inside her until her common sense gave way and she spoke without thinking. “I thought I was the first human you’d met?”
Aervern’s eyes flashed as she caught the slip and she sipped at her goblet before she spoke again. “I did not feel the need to speak of it.”
The words were mild enough but there was a heat behind them, warning Miriam off. She ignored it. Life was short enough and she’d lived a life she’d despised. “Yet you expect me to tell you everything about Tir Rhu’thin, about how the fae here react to the changes Aelthen brings. You’ve made me your spy, Aervern. Don’t you think you owe me this news about my own kind?”
Aervern started to speak, the tone hot and angry, but then bit it back and Miriam relaxed out of the flinch that had only half-started. “You are right. I do have truths I should tell.” She met Miriam’s eyes and her expression was both haughty and ashamed, like a child forced to admit a lie. When did childhood end for fae? Miriam wondered. She pushed the thoughts away as Aervern began to speak.
“Far from here, closer to Tir Rhu’thin, lay the ruins of a city, Tir Riviel. It is ancient, older than many parts of Tira Scyon, and it is a place of mysteries. Humans dwelt there, ages past, when fae and human lived as one. I travel there sometimes, to wander its empty squares and lost gardens. I met two humans there, not long before you arrived here with the Returned.”
“Humans!” Miriam blurted. “From where? What happened to them?”
“From Tir Rhu’thin,” Aervern replied. “They had escaped the camps there and fled. They came upon that place by chance.”
“When was this?” Miriam demanded, excitement filling her.
“Ten or twelve weeks past.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t long before I got here?” Miriam protested, biting her tongue as Aervern shrugged, unconcerned. “So where did they go? What happened to them?”
Aervern drank deeply from her cup, draining it and reaching for the jug to refill it. “They stayed for a time, long enough for the male and I to grow close enough to couple anyway. Eventually I left them.”
Miriam let that one pass, focusing on the rest. “So they could still be there?”
“No, Miriam.” Her voice was soft, almost gentle.
“Why not? They could be!”
Aervern shook her head. “They had escaped from Tir Rhu’thin. Satyr were already hunting them.”
“What are you saying?”
She looked down into her cup as she spoke. “They were hunted, Miriam. You must know what happened to them?”
Miriam nodded as tears pricked at her eyes.
“Say it,” Aervern insisted.
Miriam lifted her head to glare at the fae. There was no reason behind this. This was purely spite and she would die before she allowed another of this race to take pleasure in her misery. “They’re dead,” she said, her voice flat and cold.
“I would have saved them if I could,” Aervern said. “The Returned had not yet made contact with Tira Scyon, though we knew of their presence. I could not have our first contact be overshadowed by tales of us aiding their escaped slaves.”
“No, that would be terrible,” Miriam said, drawing out the words until the sarcasm fairly dribbled from them.
“You forget yourself!” Aervern snapped.
“No, Fae.” Miriam snapped back, slamming a hand down onto the table. “I remember myself. For the first time in thirty years or more, I am not buried under Ileriel’s influence. My mind is free to see things as they really are. I see you are not the same as Ileriel but you are still fae. You, and all your kind will always see us as beneath you, less than you. We are barely a step above animals to you and you will always use us as you will!”
“Yes, we will.” Aervern agreed, calm despite Miriam’s outburst. “The difference will lie in how we treat you. How those at Tira Scyon might treat humans need not be the same as how those from Tir Rhu’thin have. Aelthen will soon make his bid for the ivy throne. Already the Returned hold themselves as superior. Already fae here accept the name Wildfae.” She stood abruptly. “Walk with me. I wish for you to see something. It is something you have seen before but clearly you did not get the message.”
She led Miriam out into the streets of Tira Scyon and towards the enclave they had visited before. She did not speak, ignoring Miriam’s attempts as she hurried her along. The streets were crowded as they entered the enclave. It seemed that most of the fae in Tira Scyon had packed themselves into the district. Aervern still did not speak. Instead she would touch Miriam’s hand and subtly indicate things she wished her to see.
A tall fae made her way along the path, her bearing imperious and she looked through Miriam rather than at her as her eyes swept over them both. Behind her three fae followed, bearing baskets. On the wrist of each of them was a black leather cuff, embossed with red markings. Miriam raised an eyebrow at Aervern in question but the fae shook her head and led her onwards.
The leather cuffs were suddenly everywhere she looked, on both fae and satyr alike. Fae wore haughty expressions as they paraded along the winding paths or lounged on the stone benches.
“Aervern, are you taking your pet for a walk?” Aervern spun in place to face Ileriel as she made her way towards them. A satyr and male fae stood to one side of her, eyes downcast as they waited.
“As are you, it would seem,” Aervern replied, unruffled.
Ileriel gave her companions a glance and shrugged. “These two? They serve in exchange for knowledge. I could accommodate one more, should you wish to learn of glyph-lore yourself?”
The hiss was soft but Miriam was close enough to hear it as Aervern fought down her rising anger. “An interesting offer but I must decline. I was under the impression that glyph-lore was to be shared freely?”
“As it is,” Ileriel forced frost into the shape of smile. “These two just wish to acquire the knowledge more swiftly than other wildfae.”
Aervern shrugged, looking bored.
“And what of your new pet? Will you be bringing her along this night as Our Lady rises? Will she ride along behind you on The Hunt? There is little point in possessing a trophy if none can see it, now is there?”
Aervern studied Miriam as if seeing her for the first time. “She would be of little use I expect.”
“A banner is of little use if not flown,” Ileriel countered. “Bring her. She can be the living flag of the wildfae as they taste the sweetness of the hunt.”
Aervern’s eyes flickered to meet Miriam’s, carrying an apology in that briefest of looks. “Perhaps I will,
at that.”
Ileriel flicked a glance at Miriam, laughter in her eyes though no smile touched her lips. “Excellent. I look forward to seeing you as we muster at your great tree.”
“At the tree?” Aervern asked.
“Had you not heard?” Ileriel looked honestly surprised. “Variska herself will join us on The Hunt. The Swarm will rise.”
Aervern gasped. “The Swarm has not left that tree in my lifetime.”
“And how long has it been since any wildfae joined the hunt?” Ileriel laughed. “When we reclaim that land that is truly ours the fae’reeth will have their place. Of course the Swarm rises! As soon as Aelthen find the satyr you sent into the wild they will rise also.”
“Until the Lady rises then.” Aervern nodded her farewell and pulled Miriam after her. She dragged Miriam along by the wrist until they passed beyond the enclave and into the empty pathways of Tira Scyon. “The Swarm,” Aervern breathed. “I had not thought Variska would leave her tree again.”
She looked over to Miriam. The mask had shattered and for the first time Miriam could see true fear in her amber eyes. She looked lost.
As a very young child Miriam thought of her father as perfect. His deep voice was rarely raised in anger and his strong hands were always there guiding her. They had often wandered the woods close to the inn, harvesting the wild mushrooms her mother was so fond of. It was just a scratch really, but when the knife slipped in his hands, slicing into the delicate skin of her leg, the real wound was her sudden realisation he was human. He too could make mistakes. He wasn’t all-knowing. The thought had shocked her so much she hadn’t shed a tear or uttered a sound as her father fussed about her, binding the wound and carrying her in his arms all the way home. The look on Aervern’s face was the same as she’d worn then. The world had shifted under her feet. Something about the fae’reeth joining the hunt had shocked her to the core of her being.
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