The uyrguk frowned. He was silent for a long time.
“I have no name here,” he finally replied.
“Well, I must call you not just ‘the slave,’ no?” I said in my unwieldly east-uyrk.
He grunted.
“I do not care. I will carry the stone west and back. If I am the slave, I am simply the slave. For now. Not forever.”
I looked up at The Slave. He spat into the harbour again.
I appreciated his taciturn nature. He seemed simple and steady and I knew I could trust him. We were, after all, the only way he was getting home – the only way he was keeping out from under the lash. And he was the only good way we were carrying the Soul Slab all the way west. We needed each other.
We cast off as the sun stood directly overhead. The heavy ship sailed out of the walled harbour, plying strong with the wind into the vast azure sea. We were headed west, ever west, toward strange lands.
And I was just glad to not carry the stone.
22
Dawn
All night I tossed and turned in the sunless hollow of the Holy Oak.
I couldn’t sleep – each time I closed my eyes I saw the blighted plain, the swirling vapors, the gaping hole – the gateway to the Nothing, to the Void – I saw the sharp-toothed Disciples.
And worst of all, in the darkest hour of the night, the image of that gaunt, spindle-limbed Witch crawling from the oily smoke. It was a nightmare, an endless nightmare. Sleep would not take me. I wished I had never dream delved. I wished I was ignorant and I wished I was blind and in my desperation I even cried wet, wracking sobs.
Eventually I gave up. I pulled myself together, pulled my cloak over my shoulders, and left the confines of the Holy Oak.
Outside it was still dark. Little by little the night sky was lightening, ever so slightly. I looked up to the stars between the leaves – there were so many, so many in the firmament that it looked like silver dust upon a black satin cloth. The grass was dewy. Droplets hung heavy from the drooping flowers that hung from every branch and limb. The deep morning was peaceful, silent.
I wandered through the cloistering woods. At times soft, coloured lights would appear somewhere beyond the overgrown trail I followed. Then they would dim, dim into darkness once again. I could hear whispers, too; small, gentle whispers not unlike the hush of ferns bobbing in a gentle breeze. I knew it was the fae coming to watch me, an interloper, walk through their domain. I paid them no mind – if they wanted to follow, I couldn’t stop them. I wasn’t even sure where I was going or why.
The trees thinned until I was in the long, grassy meadow that stretched above the lake. Om, the Northern God, was bright in the sky and hung like a bauble above the lake, turning the water a rosy red. Looking behind me, back toward the Holy Oak, I saw Im, shining a deep green. He was high in the sky and small and far away.
The whispers of the fae gradually died out as I walked further into the open meadow. There was nowhere for them to hide but in the knee-high grass.
The night was warm. I let my cloak fall from my shoulders and into the crooks of my elbows. A thin mist hugged the far side of the lake, spilling into the water before dissipating. I stood in the gently bending grass, dew dripping down my legs, onto my hooves, and appreciated the dark splendour of the deep summer night. In an hour or two it would be over; the sun would be so near the horizon that the dark sky would disappear, the stars would vanish, the moons turn to coloured smoke. I so very rarely witnessed this time of night – I resolved to enjoy it while I could.
As I closed my eyes, breathing in the sweet perfume of the Glenn, a strange noise caught my ear.
I opened my eyes and looked around. It had sounded like a reed pipe, warbling and raspy.
The sound came again, floating discordant across the meadow. It was coming from the lakeside. A swell of curiosity overtook me, and I couldn’t tell why, but I just had to investigate.
Cautiously I walked through the shimmering grass to the reedy lake edge. I had to wend my way down the slope, through clumps of tall greenery, pushing past the dewy leaves. They caught in my hair, in my antlers, dripping cold onto my face. I sputtered and wiped my eyes. Yet despite the mild adversity my curiosity still burned.
Finally I got to the lake’s very edge – and I could go no further. Water lapped at the muddy shore and reeds quivered in the warm breeze. I looked around for the source of the trilling sound; into the dark brush, out across the rosy water.
“Princess, princess…” cooed a small, thin voice.
I looked to my right. There was a coil of blackberry brambles curling into the water’s edge. Delicate white flowers blossomed amid the bright green thorns.
“Hello?” I called, peering into the brambles.
From the shadow of the thorns a small figure crawled. A faerie, clothed in black gauze. She was at head height, standing upon a blackberry vine. The first thing I noticed was that she was incredibly beautiful; her eyes were narrow, her face angular and her jet hair drawn back. A band of dark paint streaked across her eyes like a blindfold.
The second thing I noticed was that her legs were not legs at all; at least, not the legs of any fae I had ever seen. Hers were insect-like, dark and many-jointed, like a beetle. I jerked back at the unusual sight.
In one hand she held a long stave – well, long for a faerie. It was really no longer than my hand. Her wings were a deep purple, flecked with black, the edges frilled ornately. She opened and closed them slowly, like a butterfly basking in the sun.
“What – who are you?” I asked in a whisper.
The faerie bowed with a feline smile, teeth shining in the moonlight.
“Exalted princess, my master greets you in this most difficult time…” she said, standing back upright. “… the Wizened Eye anticipates your coming with immense satisfaction.”
I was taken aback with her courtly parlance. I had never heard a fae speak so eloquently, so fluidly. And I was also taken aback by how she looked – and the content of what she said.
“The who?”
“The Wizened Eye. I trust the envoy of the Yvrette has mentioned us, no?”
“You mean Lyrèlie? I don’t think she’s ever mentioned the… what was it? The Wise Eye?”
“The Wizened Eye,” murmured the faerie, who put a hand on her hip and hefted the little stave over her thin shoulder.
“Yeah, that. No, she never mentioned you. Was she supposed to?” I asked.
The faerie fluttered up to a higher vine just above.
“Ah, but that is where you are wrong, dear princess… did she not mention the being who watches from the cleft in the rock?”
“She did… is that your master? She said I could ask him anything, that he could help me.”
“No, no, my master is not the one who watches from the cleft in the rock,” she said, floating back down to stand a mere arm-length away from my face. “…but he knows much, very much, perhaps more… he is the writer of the Book in the Dark, collector of whispered secrets and sower of nightmares… and he is the one who can direct you to the being who watches from the cleft in the rock, just as Lyrèlie said…”
She was right – Lyèlie had mentioned she knew of someone who could direct us. But Majira had more or less discounted her idea, preferring to send me to her old friend for training.
“You’re right. She did mention she knew someone. So will you tell me? Will you tell me where the being in the cleft in the rock is?”
“No, I cannot. I do not know – only my master knows. Only he can impart such a shrouded secret upon you, princess,” she whispered. “You must go to my master, beneath the Blighted Tree, to his honeycomb cavern where none but the knowing may go.”
An uneasy feeling crept over me. I didn’t like the sound of the ‘Blighted Tree.’ But if Lyrèlie recommended it, could it really be all that bad?
“Alright. How would I get there? If I were to go, that is.”
The faeri
e smiled and fluttered down to the lake shore. Standing upon the muddy bank she lifted her stave and blew into it like a trumpet. When she did, the same entrancing trill that had lured me to her sang out, reedy and discordant.
The water stirred. I squatted by the shore and looked in. Up from the murky depths a great, fat toad emerged. Its skin was rough and mottled. It opened its mouth wide and, to my disgust, the night-winged faerie reached in. Then she withdrew her hand and presented it to me.
“Most exalted princess, a gift from my master,” she said, lifting up a small, purple stone.
I reached down and took it from her gingerly, noting that it was covered in slime. Which was to be expected, having seen it come right out of a toad’s mouth.
“Break the stone and I will hear. Break the stone, and I will come. I will guide you to the Blighted Tree,” she said.
With that she lifted into the air, flittering back into the coiling blackberry brambles. She stopped at the shady edge and turned to give a deep bow.
“Farewell, Princess Dawn. Farewell for now.”
Then she disappeared into the brambles.
I was left standing there, confused, with the slimy stone in my hand. The toad was gone, slipped back into the muck. And I didn’t know what to do.
So I washed my hands and the stone in the lake. Once clean I lifted up to the moonlight, inspecting it as best I could; it was a smooth purple, swirling with layers. It wasn’t heavy at all and I thought that with a good stomp I could shatter it.
I sat down in the grass by the lakeside and put the stone in my cloak pocket. It was still dark; the stars still twinkled coldly in the sky. I was torn as to what to do. Majira wanted me to go train with her mystery acquaintance. Lyrèlie wanted me to go find the being who watches from the cleft in the rock.
But what did I want to do?
Part of me wanted to just stay here, in Glenn Mereillon, and hide. But I knew I couldn’t, not forever. And I didn’t want to be a coward, either. I didn’t want to have to hide, I didn’t want to be forced to do anything by anyone. I just wanted to be free, free to live in the way I best saw fit. And even then I didn’t know what that was. Queen, commoner… I just didn’t know. Last night had been so pleasant, standing outside with Ortham, but I knew that as queen it was an impossibility. I needed to stop.
But I didn’t want to do that either.
I flopped down into the wet grass. I was exhausted. I gazed into the cosmos above, where there was nothing but floating moons and dusty stars. I was so tired, so incredibly tired… I closed my eyes.
* * *
“…hey… hey, Dawn… are you alright?”
I opened my bleary eyes.
It was light out. Two dark figures loomed over me.
I rubbed my eyes clear and sat up, feeling a bit dizzy. My mouth was dry and my hair was damp with dew.
“Well, she’s alive,” came Herace’s familiar voice.
I squinted up at him. Ortham was there too, thumbs in belt, hat on head.
“I thought you were sleeping in the Holy Oak. Did you sleep walk? Or just get lost?” he asked.
“Hmph… neither…” I managed to reply, tongue sticking in my mouth.
They helped me stand up, but I didn’t need it. I shook off my cloak. The sun was just peeking over the horizon.
“Water. I need a drink,” I croaked.
“There’s a stream up that way, toward the big oak. We were headed that way to see you, but here you are,” said Herace. “Shall we go?”
I nodded, still squinting against the bright yellow light of morning.
The three of us walked up the sloping meadow to a limpid network of thin, criss-crossing streams. I knelt down and drank from my hand. The water was cool, cold enough to hurt my teeth.
I stood up. I felt much better.
“I think Ortham has a gift for you,” Herace said.
“Oh? Like what?” I asked, turning to them.
“No, I don’t, actually,” Ortham said between clenched teeth.
“Oh, no, I’m pretty sure you did. Flowers, was it?” Herace smiled. “I caught him picking some daisies just for you.”
“They weren’t daisies, they were lilies, you dunce,” Ortham said, punching Herace in the arm. “And who cares if I was picking them? They could have been for me.”
“Yeah, right! Who in their right mind just picks flowers for themselves?” Herace laughed, dodging another playful blow.
“Maybe I do!” Ortham shot back as they circled each other like children about to wrestle.
I was laughing the whole time. These were grown folk, but they sure weren’t acting like it. I blamed the fae magick.
“You’re right. You’re not in your right mind at all,” Herace said.
And then they started wrestling. Soon they were on the ground, pushing and pulling, rolling in the dirt and I was practically doubled over in fits of laughter. Then Ortham grabbed my leg and before I knew it he had pulled me down and we were all laughing in the wet grass together.
Eventually we stopped wrestling to catch our breath between giggles. I laid on my back. I looked over to my friends. They were covered in bits of grass and grinning like fools and I probably looked the same.
“Alright, enough of that,” Ortham said at last, jumping to his feet.
He helped Herace and I up with an outstretched hand and we continued on toward the Holy Oak. Its immense boughs stretched out above us, catching the golden light of sunrise in its emerald leaves.
Majira and Lyrèlie were already at its base, seated among the tumbled stones. Majira’s bright red hair stood out starkly against the grey rock.
“There you are,” she said as we approached. “I was wondering where you had gotten to… Lyrèlie had to stop me from searching myself.”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk. Then I ended up falling asleep by the lake,” I said, pulling a bit of grass out of my hair as I did.
“I imagine you had much on your mind… perhaps you have come to a decision in regards to what you would like to do next?” Majira asked.
I was about to stall, to say I wasn’t ready. But suddenly I realized I knew what I wanted to do – I knew what had to be done. I wasn’t going to hide, that was for sure. And I wasn’t going to decide between what Majira wanted and what Lyrèlie wanted.
“Yes. I have,” I replied. “I’m going to do both.”
Majira cocked her head, confused.
“Both? Both what?” she asked.
“What both of you want. I’m going to go train with your friend, and then I’m going to go find the being who watches from the cleft in the rock.”
Lyrèlie leapt up and clapped her hands together, a wide smile breaking out across her face.
“Oh, excellent!” she exclaimed.
“Are you sure, Dawn? Training with my acquaintance may take a very long time. Many months, years even. I don’t know if you will have the time to go look for a being so… reclusive. No folk has the slightest clue as to where they may be…” Majira said cautiously.
“But I know who does know where I could find them. I spoke to them last night,” I said.
Lyrèlie’s smile faltered. She glanced over at Majira who gave her a hard look back.
“They weren’t supposed to come here… they weren’t!” Lyrèlie said defensively to Majira.
Majira grimaced and pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes closed.
“Why? What’s wrong?” I asked, sensing that something wasn’t right.
“There’s no time to lose. We need to leave now,” Majira suddenly said, standing up.
“I’m sorry, Majira, I’m sorry! I only told them she might go to seek! I never invited them to Glenn Mereillon…” Lyrèlie pleaded, tugging at the hem of Majira’s dress.
“Yes, but you know that as soon as they hear of anything, they act. It’s just the way they are, Lyrèlie. Telling them is an invitation in itself,” Majira chastised. “And n
ow that they know where we are, they could lead a competent seer right to us.”
There were tears welling up in Lyrèlie’s eyes. I felt bad for her, but I also just didn’t understand what the issue was.
“Who, the Wizened Eye? You think they’ll lead the Disciples to us?” I asked.
“Or worse,” Majira said grimly. “Not on purpose, of course. Not that it matters. The result is the same. And you say they came to you last night? What did they say?”
“Just that their master could lead me to the being who watches from the cleft in the rock. And they gave me this,” I said, producing the small purple rock from my pocket.
Majira’s eyes widened when she saw it.
“Do not break that here, child. Not in this enclave. Not now,” she warned. “The Wizened Eye cannot be trusted so easily. Their master is the great blind toad Bildurog, He Who Writes the Book in the Dark in the catacombs beneath the Blighted Tree. He controls a legion of corrupted fae, which he sends out to steal secrets and plant dreams. Whatever secret he has promised you, he will expect something in return.”
I put the rock back in my pocket. I knew that feeling of unease had been justified.
Majira started walking toward the open meadow, the way from which we had just come.
“Come, now. We must depart. We have no time to waste,” she said.
I shared a concerned look with Herace and Otham. Lyrèlie was crying, wiping away tears, looking miserable seated on the ground.
I couldn’t just leave her like that. I walked over and hugged Lyrèlie goodbye.
“It’s alright, Lyrèlie. It’s alright,” I said, trying to reassure her. “You did what you thought was best. I’ll find the being who watches from the cleft in the rock. I will.”
She hugged me back and kept sobbing, saying she was sorry all the while. My heart ached seeing her like this. But if Majira was right, we had no time to lose. I had to say goodbye.
Ortham and Herace said a quick farewell and then we left, headed after Majira. Lyrèlie’s weeping rang in my ears as we walked away.
Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2) Page 19