by Liz de Jager
‘Complete the spell, human child.’
‘I don’t know what it is!’ I grind out between my teeth. ‘Help me.’
‘We cannot.’
‘We cannot . . .’
The tent becomes an echo chamber as their voices fill the air. The air is hot and I struggle to catch my breath.
‘Stop messing around. Prince Thorn is in danger. I have to follow Istvan or all is lost.’
‘So dramatic.’
‘So anxious.’
‘So in love.’
‘Love?’
‘Love.’
‘I never knew love.’
‘I knew love once. He declared himself and never returned. I burned his lands.’
‘As was your right.’
What was this? Who were these things in the mirrors? I slap my hand against the surface of the nearest one.
‘Listen!’ I shout in annoyance. ‘I don’t have the time for this. Just tell me how to find Istvan. Please.’
‘She is so young.’
‘So determined.’
‘So earnest.’
‘So in love with the Dragon.’
‘Does she know?’
‘She can’t know.’
‘We should help her.’
Terror clutches at my heart as nine figures wreathed in smoke step from the mirrors. Taller than any human or Fae I’ve ever seen, their aspect is horrific. Contorted death masks made from finely worked gold cover their faces, but it’s the peculiar stop-start of their movement towards me that freaks me out. I skitter backwards, to the tent flap, but they surround me now. The air in the tent has gone ice cold, so cold that my breath plumes in front of me and when I try to move it feels as if I’m trying to run through knee-high mud.
‘You have asked.’ A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, wrenching me backwards so I land hard on my back. ‘Now your wish is being granted.’
I’m hauled upright and no matter how much I struggle, the nine pairs of burning cold hands steady me to stand in the middle of the tent, in the circle of the mirrors.
Electric-blue light arcs from the surface of each mirror, through each of them, and hits me squarely in the chest. I throw my head back and scream, but there is no sound. I’m aware of the fact that I’ve been lifted off my feet and that I’m several feet up in the air, near the roof of the tent.
Me dangling between heaven and earth doesn’t last long, no more than five or maybe six seconds before I’m dropped to the ground and I sprawl there, inelegant and senseless for a few moments.
I sit up in surprise, noticing that the floor beneath my hands and knees is no longer muddy grass. It’s finely inlaid marble and warm to my touch. I heave myself upright, taking in my surroundings.
I’m in a large round chamber made from stone. The ceiling is high and vaulted and I get the impression that I’m in a tower. Probably top floor (of course). The room itself is unremarkable: a circular chamber with tall narrow windows all around. I can’t see any doors and it’s worrying me. I walk over to a large wall hanging of a hawk attacking a wolf and lift it. It’s heavy and I strain to peer behind it. Nothing. No door. I walk over to the windows and look out.
Unlike Marc, I don’t have a problem with heights but the view from the top of the tower is dizzying. I grip the window frame and lean out as far as I can to get a clear view of where I am. What I see doesn’t really make me feel any better. The tower is set on a sheer cliff surrounded by forest. There is green as far as the eye can see, and far in the distance maybe there’s the blue of the sea.
I’ve never seen forest like this. The trees look gnarled and ancient. A faery tale forest, I realize with unease. I’m smack bang in the middle of Alba’s Dark Forest, the place where monsters live.
Sword, knife, iron baton. At least I’m armed, I decide. I can probably take most things that come my way, as long as they come in single file. I groan and spin around, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. How am I meant to get down? I pull at my hair in annoyance, wondering if there was ever any merit in the story of Rapunzel growing her hair long.
I start a thorough search of the chamber, pressing and knocking against the walls, stamping my feet to make sure I haven’t missed a trapdoor. I circle the chamber three times, and stop short when I notice a tiny silver bell on the windowsill. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there before.
It’s a small thing, no bigger than the top joint of my little finger, and intricately carved. I peer at it, not touching it. I wonder about ringing it. Would it bring help or something else?
I agonize for a few seconds only. I draw my sword, pick up the tiny bell and ring it. The sound is surprisingly robust and sweet. It echoes around the room, making me smile. I turn in a circle, listening to it reverberate around me. It seems to build and build and then there’s an unexpected knock on the door I managed to not see during my time in the tower.
I open it only slightly and peer out. There is no one there, just a long, very long circular set of stairs going down. Every few paces there’s a lit torch. And it is quiet, like the grave.
Before I freak myself out completely, I slip through the door and it locks behind me with a quiet snick, smoothing back into the rock and disappearing altogether. I grab one of the lit torches and start my descent.
The stairs curve with the tower and it plays with my depth perception as I look down the side to see how far they actually go. My leg muscles start complaining ten minutes into the descent and I slow down quite a bit. I hold on to my torch with my left hand and use my right hand to steady myself against the wall.
I climb down the stairs for what seems like an eternity. I take breathers and after the first few times refuse to look either up or down. I find myself making better progress this way and, just as I think I am going to collapse in a bundle of quivering legs and spinning head, I get to the bottom of the tower. A massive door bars my exit and I examine it closely. It’s at least eight feet high by five feet wide. It’s made from dark wood and banded with strips of iron. I can’t see a key or a keyhole and am about to burst into tears when I remember walking around the upstairs chamber three times. So I do that again, only there is no chamber to walk around in. Instead I turn three times and on my third and final turn find a keyhole and key waiting for me in the door. I place my lit torch in an empty sconce and turn to the heavy door.
It swings open, letting in a blast of fresh autumn air. I lean forward and take in great big gulps of air. There’s a small clearing around the tower, as well as a small picnic table and a well. I crank the wheel and a bucket comes up, filled to the brim with some of the most amazing sweet-smelling water. I take big mouthfuls and drink until I can’t take another swallow.
The biggest thing about survival in a forest, Jamie’s voice in my head reminds me, is water and shelter. Drink as much as you can when you can and immediately make shelter. Once those two things are seen to, you can worry about food.
I nod, thanking Jamie’s voice, and ignore the bit about shelter and food. I have to find Thorn. I walk around the clearing and find the place where Istvan and Thorn entered the forest. I set off in the same direction, grateful to the tracking lessons that Jamie forced on us.
But then, Istvan and Thorn weren’t exactly hiding, either. They strode at an energetic pace. Or rather, Istvan did. Thorn’s prints look slower, as if he’s dragging his feet, and I find blood on a few plants near the start of the trail.
I step carefully, keeping my wits about me. The forest is dense and the trees tower high above me, letting in very little light from above. When I left the camp it was night, here it’s day, early morning. But I have no way of telling if it’s today or tomorrow or even yesterday. I hate how screwed-up time is between the Frontier and the Otherwhere.
I rub my face, square my shoulders and with utmost care follow the route Istvan’s bashed through the undergrowth.
I walk for about an hour and have become used to the greenery around me when the smell of decomposition hits me full in the face. I reel
back and press myself up against a tree. I hear voices too, distantly, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.
I hunker down and creep forward for several metres. There is a group of the goblin chimera and they are talking to Istvan. They seem to defer to him, but only just. Two of them are standing guard over Thorn, who is slumped on a tree stump. I move slightly to get a better view of him and bite my lip in anger when I see how badly he’s been beaten. Not only is his eyebrow cut, he’s wearing a spectacular black eye and there’s a livid bruise visible around his neck.
Lake Baikal – The Frontier, Russia
A hesitant knock on the shield outside his tent tore Duke Eadric’s attention away from his most recent dispatches. A young squire, no older than twelve, slipped into the tent looking as if he’d rather face an army of ogres than be in Eadric’s presence. The thought twisted the man’s thin lips into a wry smile and the boy paled. For a few seconds they regarded one another in silence before Eadric sighed impatiently and gestured for the boy to come forward.
‘Sir, my lord? Lord Istvan has the prince.’ The boy swallowed against the dryness in his throat. ‘We just had word from our lookout.’
Eadric exclaimed, startling the boy. ‘Excellent news. When do we expect them?’
‘I don’t . . . My lord, he’s not coming to the camp. He’s taking the prince directly to the island.’
The boy held his breath as he told Eadric this, watching the duke through worried eyes. He slanted a look to his left, to the shadows, using his peripheral vision to make sure he had a clear exit from the tent in case Eadric decided to throw something at him. It’d been known to happen.
Eadric stood up from the chair behind the desk and stretched. His shadow capered behind him on the canvas and for a moment it didn’t resemble the shape of a man at all. For the briefest of seconds the shadow-play looked like a gargoyle, a craven hunched figure, spindly with a swollen belly. The boy stared in horror, blinking, and took an unthinking step back. Before he could turn and run, his training took over and he squared his shoulders. None of this was about him, but it was about the honour of his family. He would stay and face whatever the outcome of the duke’s anger and annoyance might be. He swallowed against the terror building in his chest and flicked his eyes towards the duke again.
The duke seemed unaware of the boy in the tent with him. His expression was one of deep thought and for a heartbeat the boy thought that he might return unscathed from carrying the message. The boy shifted in his too-warm doublet but froze mid-movement when Eadric looked at him with hot hungry eyes.
‘What is your name, boy?’
‘Jesse, sir. My grandfather is Lord Belton.’
‘Belton has been a loyal supporter from the start. You are his eldest grandson, yes?’
The boy, Jesse, nodded, risking a quick proud smile. ‘My father too, sir. We are all happy to serve you in this great time.’
Eadric’s smile was as sickly as it was patronizing. He moved to his desk to pick at a small platter of fruit and cheese. For a while the only sound was that of Eadric eating. He cleaned his fingers on his shirt before beckoning Jesse closer.
‘Come here, boy.’
The boy didn’t hesitate. He strolled confidently up to Eadric. ‘Would you like me to pour you some wine, sir?’
‘Yes, why don’t you do that?’ Eadric watched the boy’s movements. ‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’
‘I do, my lord. I have two younger brothers and a sister.’ Jesse’s smile was one of pride. ‘They are all here in the camp with my parents.’
‘Good, that is good.’ Eadric nodded, his smile slipping, to be replaced by a look of sadness and perhaps regret. ‘With more siblings to occupy them, it will be easier for your parents to get over your death.’
‘I . . . what?’ Jesse’s eyes grew huge as Eadric made a lunge for him.
The boy fought valiantly against the older man, but he was slight for his age and the man was wiry and strong.
When Eadric’s servant strode into the tent with his master’s nightcap he came to an abrupt halt.
Eadric sat in the darkened tent, with only the brazier and a small tiered candelabrum for light. Even so, it was easy to see the dark red blood of the young child he clutched to him dripping down his face and chest, covering his clothes and robes. He looked at his manservant and the man, not for the first time, realized that his master had irrevocably lost his mind. There was no recognition, no regret, no sadness for the deed done in Eadric’s features. Instead he looked satisfied and a bit bemused at the state he was in. He stood and the child’s body dropped to the floor at his feet.
‘Clean this up,’ he instructed. ‘Tell Belton we caught him trying to crawl into the cages with the griffins.’
The man nodded. He placed the sleeping draught on the small table with the platter of fruit and bent to pick up the boy. He averted his gaze from the horrific bites on the boy’s arms and neck and he kept his face neutral as he walked from the tent.
Behind him he could hear Eadric talking to someone, laughing softly. The man risked a glance over his shoulder and saw a group of monstrous shadows writhing against the tent canvas. He snapped his gaze back, straightened his shoulders and walked into the night with his burden.
Chapter Thirty-Five
‘If you do anything now, you’ll get yourself killed.’
Because the voice echoes what I’m thinking it takes me a full second to realize that someone is speaking in my ear. Remaining absolutely still takes more effort than I would’ve thought possible. But jumping up now will definitely alert Istvan and his cronies to my location and, even though I am pretty competent with my sword, taking on twelve of them, and Istvan for good measure, is not something I’d like to try.
‘Good girl,’ murmurs the voice. ‘My name is Crow.’
‘Kit,’ I whisper back, not taking my eyes off the group in front of me.
‘You move with some skill, Kit. But you aren’t from here.’
I risk the slightest shake of my head. ‘No. I’m from the Frontier.’
‘Thought as much. No one here would voluntarily carry iron on their person.’
I frown, wondering what he means, then realize he is talking about the rod strapped to my arm. How would he even know that I’m carrying iron?
‘The smell of it,’ Crow says. ‘It reeks.’
He’d better not be able to read my mind. ‘We have to save the prince,’ I tell Crow.
‘We will, but not yet.’ The presence next to me shifts. ‘Come with me.’
Taking the utmost care, I move backwards, keeping the foliage and ferns between me and the group in front. Crow places a hand on my back and guides me further back until we are several metres away, shielded by the wide trunks of the trees and more undergrowth.
Crow, like his namesake, has thick black hair and carries a tan that makes me think he’s never spent an hour indoors. His eyes are large and dark, the colour of midnight. He’s dressed in leathers and pelts and looks feral and unpredictable. He carries an impressive longbow and quiver slung across his back. A large hunting knife rests on his hip.
He is very lean and there is strength in his hands as he moves me slightly further behind the tree trunk.
‘I am one of Aelfric’s foresters,’ Crow says, keeping his voice very quiet. ‘You find yourself in the Dark Forest. How did you come to be here?’
‘How can I be sure I can trust you?’ I counter. ‘I don’t know you from Adam. All I have is your word that you work for Aelfric.’
‘Don’t you think that I would have betrayed you to them if I had not been an ally?’
He had a point. ‘How do you know I’m not the enemy?’ I counter.
‘There are rumours going about the forest, about a human girl who has lost her heart to the Dragon.’
I tut irritably and pray that he doesn’t notice my heightened colour as my cheeks flame red. ‘I don’t even know what that means. Also, how can there be rumours in the forest? You are
the only person I’ve seen and I’ve not told you anything.’
Crow’s smile reminds me of Aiden. Here’s another cheeky one, I realize. Just what I need.
‘You have been watched since you left the tower. We are all very excited to see a human child in the forest. It has been an age since we had someone from the Frontier visit us.’ He gestures, looking contrite. ‘Voluntarily, that is.’
‘I’m not here to have high tea,’ I whisper fiercely. ‘I’m here to save your prince.’
Crow blinks in surprise at the anger in my voice but nods. ‘I know. But there is no reason not to be friendly.’
I yearn to stomp my feet in frustration but I don’t. Instead I give him one of my practised level looks à la Nan.
‘Listen, are you helping me to figure out where they’re taking Thorn or are we going to stand around here all day?’
‘I know where Istvan is taking the young prince. I can show you if you like?’
So help me! I clench my fists and nod, taking a few seconds to get my impatience under control.
‘How do I know you’re taking me to the right place?’
‘You don’t.’ He bends to draw something in the dirt at his feet. ‘We will have to go round Duke Eadric’s army and conjure a spirit to help you cross the Lake of Sorrows. There is an island in the middle of the lake. That’s where they are taking Thorn.’
‘That would be just . . . great. How far is it?’ The sketch makes no sense to me. I walk over and stand next to Crow. Ah, now I can see what he means. The lake doesn’t seem to be that far. However, between us and the lake is a huge army. He’s drawn a wide curve to show our expected journey.
Crow nods and smiles happily. ‘Not far, as the crow flies.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Humans in the Otherwhere: Traditional stories tell of men and women stumbling across fairy revels (usually on hilltops) and, compelled by the music, they join the fairies. Invariably they partake of food and drink and are then trapped in the fairy world for some time. When they manage to outsmart their captors years have gone by in their own world. Due to new treaties signed by the Courts in Alba specifically, there are fewer and fewer human abductions, that we know of.