The Reaping (The Moondreamer Chronicles Book 2)

by Tamara Mataya

  My face grows hot at her praise. “I’m not special.”

  “You have all the qualities of a great leader.”

  “I don't want to be a leader.”

  “Sometimes it's not about what we want, it's about what's best for everyone. Whether or not you want to lead people, they are following you. Where will you take them?”

  I don't like the sound of that—and I have no frigging idea where to lead anybody.

  She pats my leg. “Let's get moving again. We've still got a ways to go.”

  JUST BEFORE SUNSET, Ashria stops in front of a tree. “We're here.”

  There wasn’t really a clear picture in my mind of how a Sprite city should be, but this is the same as the rest of the forest. Just like the where place we camped yesterday. It all blends together to me, though I'm sure to a trained eye there’d be subtle differences between one bush and the next. I love trees and wildflowers as much as the next girl, but at this point I just want to be inside, away from nature.

  “Okay.” My uncertainty draws out the word. “Now what?”

  “Now we shrink.”

  “Really?”

  “We won't fit in their city as we are.”

  I knew the Council made the Sprites bigger for the Sowing so they could breed, but I never really thought about that being applied in reverse. It’s kind of awesome.

  Why haven’t I tried this before? Who hasn't imagined shrinking down and running around their house? Everything would be new. Groceries would last forever! In theory. Maybe it would take a bunch of energy when growing large again, and the calories would need to be balanced, making you consume the same amount anyways. The potential for so much adventure is huge—not that I'm lacking in that lately.

  It's something to keep in mind for when all of this is over, though. And maybe I can use this in combat or for spying on the enemy. So far, there are far more things that I'm able to do than what I can't do. Telepathy’s out—except for that one time with William and Mare. I can't mess with time, teleport, or bring people back from the dead.

  Even free will is up for grabs. Sure there are defences, but I can glamour with the best of them.

  If I was a villain, I'd be epic.

  “So, do I just...” I make a shrinking motion with my hands.

  “Yes. Ensure you do it slowly enough that your body has time to shift. Otherwise it can get rather messy.”

  Um, ew. I don't even want to know.

  There's a light pressure all over my skin, and my bones and organs...adjust, which is unpleasant but not painful, until I’m about a foot tall—it’s hard to tell from this perspective. Everything is huge and unfamiliar, not that the forest was screaming with familiarity before, except now the few things I was used to are completely different.

  Ashria shrinks down smaller than me.

  “Not quite enough, Syxx.” Her voice isn't any higher pitched than normal, maybe because I'm smaller too? She flicks her wrist, and I shrink even more until we match in size. Based on the height of the nearby grass, I'd say we're about five inches tall now.

  Ashria reaches out and pushes against a knot on the tree with both of her now tiny hands.

  A muffled chorus of sweet sounds rings out, like a wind chime made of wood. Ashria leads me around the trunk of the tree and holds back the edge of a small bush. “The door is inside.”

  I walk between the branches, and she follows, letting the bush close behind us in the shadows beneath the hedge. Streaming light shines through the bush's branches, gently showing me the way on the small path, and highlighting the giant door carved into the tree. Because of our size difference, I say giant, but it’s about two feet tall and built into the tree, masked by a sort of canopy of leaves and branches—not that they'd get a lot of prying eyes behind the bushes.

  The bark-covered intricate patterns on the door seem like the tree grew this way instead of having been carved. “How is that possible?”

  “The Sprites are able to ask the tree to grow in ways that are beneficial to them. They would never take a tool to mar a plant.”

  “It's amazing.” The door is at once formidable and breathtaking and shows that the very world around the Sprites appreciates them and shows support. It grew this way to help its hosts. It's beautiful and I can’t help but think about magic like this used in the human world to make it a gentler, more beautiful place, at harmony with nature instead of at odds with it.

  Ashria stops me with a hand on my shoulder, leaning close. “While we are friendly with these Sprites, mind what you say, and take care to modulate your voice.”

  “I'm not going to scare them.”

  “It's not about scaring them, Syxx. It's for your safety. Outside The Sowing ceremony, and on their turf, Sprites can more than hold their own.”

  Huh. Sprites have always looked so fragile to me. The only pure-blooded Sprites I've seen were at The Sowing and human-sized. They’re so plant-based and delicate they’re the most limited as to who they can mate with. Fae that are only part Sprite seem fragile to me. Not that that means anything in the Fae world. Looks are deceiving. Skortia’s Elf heritage works to her advantage—her dainty features lull you into believing she's weak unless you see her bare arms because, welcome to the Gun Show.

  If Sprites can literally shape the world around them, they must be powerful.

  “That explains how they were able to capture Coren. What's the plan for him?”

  Ashria picks up her pack and dusts the bottom of it off before putting it on again. “We'll find out what he knows, dispose of the body, and return home.”

  The body? “We're going to kill him?”

  “What did you think we were going to do with him, daughter?”

  I saw a movie once where they forced a person to watch Disney movies until she transformed into a more agreeable version of herself. Even though it failed, I liked that plan. It was gentle and involved cartoons.

  Why can’t our plans ever go like that? It's not like a kill or be killed in a battle-type situation. Killing someone while they're bound is murder—plain and simple. Whether it's by a spell, or a knife, or my bare hands, it's not a fair fight. At the same time, the Sprites shouldn’t let him out of their jail, or wherever they're keeping him, and give him a chance to hurt more people and cause more trouble.

  My thoughts are still roiling like a pit of snakes when the gate slowly opens, and a bulky—well, bulky for a Sprite—male strides out. Wearing clothes of braided grasses and leaves, his skin is a dark green and his eyes are the rich shade of dark cherry wood. His serious expression relaxes a bit when he looks at Ashria.

  “Ashria! What a pleasant surprise.” He moves forward and embraces her warmly. It's the first time I've ever seen someone who didn't get twitchy and scared around her, and it makes me look at the Sprite leader in a new light. Either they're old friends, or he's just not scared of my powerful mother—which means he's got to be pretty epic himself.

  Good reminder not to discount the Sprites as weak, despite their fragile appearances.

  “Brannon. Not that much of a surprise, I hope,” she says.

  “Not a surprise at all, really, only I wasn't expecting you so soon.”

  “Come at a bad time, have we?” I ask with less warmth. He hasn't invited us in or anything.

  “Ah, where are my manners? You must be Ashria's daughter. The resemblance is uncanny.”

  “Yes.” I hold out my hand. “My name is Syxx.”

  “Brannon.” His handshake is firm and cool. “To what do I owe this visit? I heard only that you were coming, not why.”

  Might as well be direct. I shrug. “We're here for Coren.”

  “Are you?” he says mildly. “Well, you'd best come in. You must be tired after your long travels.”

  He leads us inside, and the door shuts behind us. Huge fireflies perch at the sides of the hall, softly lighting the way down the dark corridor, wings gently fluttering, creating the slightest breeze and moving fresh air along as we pass by. Then again, t
hey only seem huge because we’re small. For some reason I thought they’d be fuzzier.

  The ground slopes down, and we follow stairs formed by tree roots peeking through the earth.

  “Are they alive?” I point at the roots.

  Brannon’s pride shines through. “Nearly everything here is.”

  “How did you get them to form so perfectly?” They're straight enough to have been placed here, a perfect, natural staircase.

  “We asked them to.”

  Right. Tree Sprites. Can all of them do that, or is that one person's job, like, the Root Whisperer?

  I keep my stupid questions to myself.

  Even though we're underground, it’s spacious, light, and airy and smells like rich soil and freshly cut grass after a spring rain. Curious Sprites peek at us from rooms leading off of the hallway we're in. Comparing myself to nearby Sprites, I notice Ashria has left us bigger than most of the Sprites. Psychological advantage?

  We enter an archway inside the base of a large tree and head inside the trunk.

  Brannon stops just outside a small room. “Step in to my office. Please, make yourselves comfortable. Jelida!”

  A Sprite with green hair and skin the shade of bleached oak twinkles in, balancing a large tray with flowers on it. Sprites are the most beautifully diverse group within themselves—maybe because plants are too.

  Her wings slightly vibrate. “Please, it's our best honey mead. Last batch of the year.”

  I worry the chair I choose, made of woven twigs, won’t hold me, but it’s sturdy enough. We accept cups made from flowers. The stem of the flower twines around in a spiral, forming the base of the glass so it's possible to set them down. Their mead is thicker than most drinks I’m used to, sweet and spicy, and the aftertaste has a bit of a kick to it, but I could happily drink only this for the rest of my life and be fine with that choice. “Thank you.” I hold my glass up. It's very good.”

  “It is.” Ashria sets hers down after a taste. “As much as I hate to force the issue, we are on a bit of a schedule. This isn't a social call, unfortunately.”

  Brannon takes a leisurely sip of mead. “You're here about the Warlock.”

  “Indeed. If it's fine by you, we'd like to spend the night and refresh ourselves—it has been a long journey—and then in the morning we'll be on our way with Coren. We're only too happy to take him off your hands. I know it's unexpected—”

  “Oh, it is, but that's not it. We're not turning him in to your custody,” he says pleasantly.

  This feels off. “Why not?”

  “This is non-negotiable. The Warlock stays.”

  “This is such bullshit!” Decorum flies out the window. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re trying to prevent a war, Brannon.” I don’t want to kill Coren, but we can’t leave him hanging about somewhere he could possibly get free. “We can’t afford to walk away from this situation. Not when we know where he is. We want justice to be served.”

  Brannon squints. “I assure you, we're taking care of this ourselves.”

  Ashria gently folds her hands on her lap. “He may have information that could help us all. Surely you see the sense in letting us question him.”

  Brannon shakes his head. “We’ve already gotten everything out of him that there is. I’ll show you the tapes later, if you prefer seeing them for yourself.”

  I shake my head. “If we asked him—”

  His jaw tightens. “Trust me when I tell you that we got everything from him. We’ve had him for weeks. It took a while, but we got everything out of him.”

  “And you didn’t think to share this information?” Ashria’s lips press into a thin line of disapproval.

  “We were busy getting the information. It was only the last couple days when we got a little more aggressive that he began singing. We never intended to hide anything. We only wanted to take care of this mess before sharing intel.”

  “Even if he’s said all he can say, the Warlock is not without value as a bargaining tool. I’d prefer not to leave him around.”

  Brannon shrugs. “He’s worth more to us this way. Besides, the High Council members are about as loyal to one another as the Fae Council members were—you’d know all about that, Ashria.”

  The way he looks at her makes my stomach burn with anger, and I struggle to keep it civil. “Why can’t we see him now?”

  He smiles at my question the way any elder does to a child they’re patronizing. “Perhaps it would be better for you to see for yourselves. Come with me.”

  He leads us through the maze of passageways and halls to a vast room with a high ceiling formed in the middle of a thicket or some kind of hedge. The last evening light streams in through holes that have been sealed shut with various shades of resin, creating beautiful natural versions of stained glass windows. There aren't any chairs and the only adornment is a stage at the front of the room with a bundle of fabric on it.

  As we approach the front of the room the bundle on the stage moves. It’s Coren. The Sprites have shrunken him down so he’s a bit larger than us.

  The better to see him, I guess.

  They’ve bound his hands together, and the same resin from the windows is slathered on his eyes and over his mouth. Even though they're bound, he can still work spells with his hands.

  Or not. My stomach flips over and I breathe shallowly to avoid throwing up.

  What I'd initially thought were brown gloves are actually his hands, covered with dried blood.

  The Sprites have cut off his fingers and smashed his hands into swollen caricatures, painful and grotesque.

  I shudder and turn to Brannon. “What the hell have you done to him?”

  “No more or less than he's done to our people.” His expression is unrepentant.

  I mean, I get it, but hot damn, the savage gleam in the eyes of the Sprites near him chill my blood. “This isn't retribution, it's torture.” I fail to keep the horror from my voice. “There's no justice in this.”

  “Syxx.” Ashria's voice holds a warning.

  The effort to keep my mouth shut makes me twitch, but I manage it.

  The room has been rapidly filling while my focus was on Coren. There isn't a sympathetic expression in the house. I'd say the dominant expression is bloodthirsty.

  The bad feeling turns worse, and my stomach suddenly feels weak. “What's happening?”

  “You'll see.” Brannon’s gaze never leaves the stage.

  I'm, like, ninety-five percent sure I don't want to see this.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Brannon moves closer to the stage and begins listing names of Sprites that have died in the last twenty years. Some of the women died while pregnant and unable to find enough to eat having been enlarged for breeding—even with their families helping. Others couldn’t bear their children being taken and fled. A few more went missing for asking questions where the wrong people could hear.

  Brannon’s voice shakes when he names the crimes Coren has been found guilty of—even if he didn’t directly do them, he’s been responsible for them as a member of the High Council.

  We’re bathed in waves of emotions from the Sprites around us, and I force myself to separate my feelings from theirs before I fall to the ground and cry myself sick.

  So much anguish.

  I’d want retribution—I want retribution—too, but I’ve got emotional distance to lend me perspective. I wasn’t subjected to decades of atrocities the way the Sprites have been. Brannon seems to think Coren’s given them all the information he has and maybe that’s true. Then again, maybe it’s not. Killing him isn’t something that can be undone; we should wait and think about this. The Sprites deserve justice, I’m just not sure that should involve killing Coren.

  Brannon lets his words of judgment soak in, then looks up at the Warlock on the stage. “Coren, there’s a bottle in front of you. Take it.”

  A Sprite tears the sticky resin gag from Coren’s mouth, taking a chunk out of his lip, but leaves the resin bli
ndfold. I swallow hard, glad they left it—otherwise it might have taken his eyelids with it.

  Coren grimaces. “And if I don't?” A thin sheen of blood tinges his teeth pink.

  “Take the bottle.” Brannon's voice holds such deep anguish and anger that it becomes as compelling as any Siren's. I shiver, unable to tear my gaze from the stage.

  Coren fumbles for the bottle, clasping it in his fingerless palms and holding it between them like a prayer. It's got to hurt like hell on his wounds, some of which have begun dripping blood onto the floor, but he barely winces. “Now what?”

  Brannon crosses his arms. “Now would be a good time for any last words you might have.”

  This is wrong, it's so wrong. And yet what’s worse—the Sprites killing him for the things the High Council have done, or the way we want to question him more and then potentially kill him?

  I’m not equipped for this. Clenching my hands into tight fists doesn’t stop them from shaking.

  “Then...” Coren’s voice is hoarse and he swallows. “Then I'm sorry. If that's what you need to hear. By killing me, you're no better than I am. Your thirst for vengeance has turned you into what you most hate. Killing me fixes nothing.”

  Maybe if he begged them for forgiveness and profusely apologized...he isn't even trying to win anyone over.

  Brannon slowly paces back and forth in front of the stage. “We aren't killing you, Warlock. Now drink.”

  It’s poison? Barely breathing, my gaze ricochets around the room. Why is no one stopping this? Eyes are full of anger, hope, and sorrow, but no pity.

  No one is going to stop this.

  It's really happening.

  Coren brings the green bottle up to his lips.

  Are they really going to force him to kill himself in front of them?

  I try to move, but I'm rooted in place.

  I attempt to shout out about how wrong this is, but my voice is silent.

  Not even a squeak comes out. Horror has stolen my voice.

  A transparent indigo pattern surrounds us, like looking through the finest silk scarf. Ashria’s spell signature.