Fae of the North (Court of Crown and Compass Book 1)

by E Hall

  I add a log to the fire and pad over to the bed. I get my coat and crawl under the blanket and rest my head on Soren’s pillow, breathing in the faint scent of home mixing with his combination of mint, woodsmoke, and pine. My eyes close, desperate for sleep.

  Ice turns liquid and then solid again as I enter the dreamspace. Images flash across my vision, blurring crimson and metal, a guard’s laughter and menace. The dream blurs as I see unfamiliar images and names. I plunge and rise up and slam down again before I see myself standing in front of Fjallhold. A long, black-clad figure wearing a silver crown calls to me, “I know why you’re here. Come to me. Come to me now.” My legs don’t move as a massive golden raven flies overhead before disappearing into the black of night. The man, who’s sure to be the silver king, calls to me again, like the sound of an ill wind slicing over water.

  My eyes flash open.

  Soren breathes softly on the floor beside me. Even in sleep, his features are tight as if he can’t avoid seeing the difficulties of his waking life. Dusty light creeps through the thin slats of the modest house, cutting lines across his arms and legs. The embers in the fire suggest he woke up in the night to add logs to keep out the drafts and demons.

  I pull on my boots and my coat, slipping out the door as silent as snow, but not before whispering, “Thank you.”

  Clouds stack the sunless sky. In the distance, the ocean goes on forever. As the landscape takes shape, I understand that Raven’s Landing sits precariously at the tip of a peninsula backed by hills and mountains sloping toward the north.

  I don’t care if King Leith is harsh and unfair, I must seek him. My mother said so. I can warn him about the Shadow Army or, if he’s behind it like Soren suggested, somehow stop him. I have one remaining Talisman. I can’t remain idle when I know there is danger. A demon might deceive me, but my mother wouldn’t. Whatever she said was the truth and I must pursue it.

  Without the warmth of the sun, the mud from yesterday remains solid on the rutted roads as I leave the gate of the still-sleeping Roost.

  By the time I reach the Flats, the Distijllery belches bitter smoke. Pockmarked and reedy laborers enter and exit, their eyes bleary and their gait crooked, even the ones starting for the day.

  The king must see how the people struggle. I refuse to believe he wants everyone starving, and dirty, scared and suffering. The people here are treated little better than the demons back home.

  My path becomes uncertain and the streets narrow as I try to find the one that leads to the castle. I know, I know. Don’t go in the basement. Avoid the creepy house. Don’t go see the creepy king. But my mother said to seek the silver king and stop the Shadow Army.

  I reach the commons in front of the castle. Then I make a wide arc around the ashpit, forcing myself not to think about the contents and the misery of Fjallhold.

  I stand at the gates, sealed shut with iron bars. Below, the inky water in the moat surrounding the castle slaps the stonewalls. Several guards approach dressed in dark red and polished black boots. They flank a bald woman, the top of her head shining. Her long red robe, the same color of my karate belt, whips her ankles. She must be Glandias, the mage.

  The guards grip their blades, their eyes gray and vacant.

  “We’ve been expecting you,” Glandias calls in an oily voice.

  “I’m here to see King Leith,” I declare across the castle gate.

  Her thin lips pucker into what on anyone else might resemble a smile of confirmation.

  From within the stonewall, a chain clanks and releases. The gate slowly opens to the sounds of men grunting. The bald woman studies me carefully. Her skin is almost the color of milk, and I turn away, searching the sky for the sun.

  “You come from afar?” she asks after metal slams into metal and the guards begin to lower a wide bridge to permit my crossing the moat.

  I’m about to answer when a figure streaks past, lifting me off my feet.

  Chapter 9

  Soren

  I’m practically flying and I don’t stop when the guards demand we surrender, their heavy boots pounding along the cobblestones behind us.

  I don’t stop even when I have to push through the morning crowds going to the market, to slog away at the Distijllery, and podgers eager to cheat.

  I don’t stop when the tower bells toll, indicating daybreak.

  I don’t stop when my breath thunders in my chest.

  I don’t stop when Kiki insists I put her down.

  I don’t stop until I reach the shoreline where I finally release her to the black sand.

  “What was that?” she demands. Her face is pink and her eyes ice-cold as she adjusts her clothing and smooths her hair, rather affronted.

  “That was a daring rescue,” I say, jaw clenched.

  “I have to see King—”

  I lunge at her, to silence her, secure her from doing something foolish, but she’s too quick, a fleeting vision of beauty, a squall of indignation. She disappears back into the morning fray. I follow as the blotch of the sun appears, casting hopeful light on the dingy, the drunk, and the lost. Carts catch in the rutted roads as the mud thaws, children race underfoot, and mullockers, trying to earn a dishonest living, call out, “Get your spices, trade your cloth, get your brown bread ingredients, only the purest here, you can’t go wrong.” It’s just ash, dust, and lies.

  “You can’t go there,” I call after her.

  “I can and I will,” she shouts over her shoulder.

  Standing nearly a head above everyone has its advantages (unless I want to go unnoticed), and I keep Kiki in my sight as I follow her through the crowd.

  Like a tempest, she blows forward, not noticing when she wanders into the web of the pleasure quarter.

  Kiki reaches a dead end, turns with arms folded over her chest, and glares at me as though it’s my fault she’s here.

  I have her backed into a corner and we face off.

  At last, I say, “Will you at least listen to me?”

  She grunts and shoves past me with a hard knock of her shoulder into my ribs.

  We walk in irritable silence, keeping to narrow, crooked lanes until the waves along the breakwater at Battersea promise to muffle further conversation. The incoming tide sends seawater raining down on our feet.

  I launch right into it. “You don’t understand. Going to the silver king isn’t a solution. He caused this. He could put a stop to it. He doesn’t. He’s probably the one building the Shadow Army—and how can anyone in Raven’s Landing fight back if they’re starving and deprived?”

  “You don’t look hungry.”

  “Oh, I am,” I growl.

  Her gaze doesn’t waver from mine and her lips form a pout. An adorable pout. A slight gust of wind breezes her sugar snow scent my way. I shake my head, trying to break free of it.

  “Kiki, despite what you may think, I care very much about the people. Dad had three favorite stories about my mother.” I pause, lowering my voice. These aren’t the kinds of words for just anyone. “One of which was of her compassion and the love in her lavender fae eyes. Even when I feel like giving up, drowning in stijl, when I’m hungry and cold, I do it for her, for her memory, and for what we lost in the Grievous Fires.”

  “Your mother was fae?” Kiki’s eyes widen.

  I nod. “After the Wicked War, everyone was scared even though Count Bortimal was vanquished. They were afraid of having magic in case they were attacked again. They were afraid of magic and the supernatural because it was what conquered him. Over time, those views slowly turned the people against each other and they started to believe that the supernatural was evil. They made it shameful and an embarrassment to practice magic and then outlawed it.”

  “I thought it was make-believe, bedtime stories. I didn’t think fae were actually real or that my mother was telling me tales about her people. She must’ve been fae.” Her face crimps with confusion, uncertainty. Then her eyes widen. “Why did she send me to stop the Shadow Army?”

/>   “Separating fae light and shadow is the worst thing that can happen to fae.”

  “Worse than dead?” Kiki sounds dubious.

  “The way my dad explained it is fae light and shadow are what hold them in balance, make them whole. Ordinarily, they embrace both aspects. Too much light, they burn out. Too much shadow, they fall into darkness and their power concentrates on the shadow, filters through it, and can cause untold destruction. When a demon steals a fae shadow, they’re tearing them apart, actually extinguishing their light completely. Whatever happens next is not truly the will of the fae because they’re neither dead or alive.”

  “They’re like zombies?” Her mouth falls open.

  I lift and lower my shoulders.

  “Wait? You don’t know about zombies?” A hint of laughter quirks Kiki’s lips.

  I squint as if doing so will help me understand the Terra word.

  She explains the walking dead, getting very descriptive.

  “Sound like demons to me.”

  “But demons can be killed...” she starts.

  I add, “And an army of shadow fae cannot.”

  “And what would the silver king do with this army?” she asks after a beat.

  “Rule the realm. Seeking the silver king’s council isn’t the solution. It’s a death sentence.”

  Kiki’s face pales.

  “The king divided the fae from the people of Raven’s Landing and is now dividing them from their light and shadow.” What was an expression of deep thought slowly smooths to one of resolve as her eyes flicker. “What did the people believe before him?” Kiki asks.

  “We were united under Torsuld, king of the ravens.” I turn my gaze to the faded painting of ravens behind us and that deep fluttering rises inside. It’s like the truth wants to rush out of me on inked wings.

  Kiki lifts her gaze as though searching the sky. The late-day bells ring, and I try to drown them and reminders of Raven’s Landing in the crashing waves. We’re quiet as the sun dips lower and the rising tide laps the rocks.

  “The tide is coming up,” I say.

  We cross the black sand to the outermost row of houses at Battersea and slip between a narrow passage that opens to the charred remains of the township.

  “Leaves little to wonder about the devastation of the Grievous Fires.”

  I kick the charred remains of a crate. Anger floods me as we pass a slate stoop and all that’s left of the house I grew up in. I make a habit of pausing when I come through here.

  “I’ll live free or die trying.” I clench my fists, ready for a fight.

  The urge to end the silver king’s tyranny or put a stop to it once and for all presses against my ribs, my bones, and my skin like it’s forcing its way out. Sweat beads along my forehead and I rake my hand through my hair. I feel like a caged bird, dying to take flight.

  “I have to do something,” Kiki says. “I owe it to my mother.”

  Her and me both. “You want to warn the people using the content of some random message? Then what?” My anger wanes as I glance down the lane and toward another house that’s all too familiar. “We’ve tried it all. There aren’t enough of us. He’s turned the people against each other.”

  “Do you believe in a different future?” she asks.

  “Definitely maybe,” I mutter. My skin itches. My fingers twitch. My stomach growls. I gave my last dukh to that lady yesterday, and I’m almost convinced that there aren’t any fish left in the sea. “I’m hungry, and I’m skint. I’m going to see a man about—” Before I can finish there’s a shout, a clatter, and then a wail.

  A rangy man and a girl with a shaved head argue heatedly with an old lady. She clutches her cart as we approach. The guy takes one look at me, grabs something from the cart as the girl kicks it over, sending the woman to the muddy ground.

  I shout, making chase, but I’m afraid to leave Kiki on her own. Not because I worry that she can’t handle herself, but because of the proximity of the ever-looming castle and the man who resides inside that I already kept her from once today.

  Kiki’s expression dims as she crouches next to the woman. I straighten her cart.

  The woman hisses, “I don’t want your help.” Filthy lines crease her face and black teeth fill her mouth.

  Kiki says, “There’s a difference between want and need.”

  “I don’t care about that either,” the lady says.

  I take a step back, glancing around for the king’s patrol, ready to call us guilty for causing the scene. “We better get out of here,” I mutter.

  Kiki is slow to move, as though rooted in the mud. Her glittering eyes implore the old woman to take her outstretched hand, but at the sound of a whistle, I clasp it and take off at a quick pace. A pair of patrolmen round the corner.

  A tabber and a dowsy argue in front of a tavern and the guards stop to intervene, taking them off our tail.

  Kiki, catching her breath, says, “You said the silver king turned the people against each other. The only way to get the people to listen is if they come together.”

  I fail at forcing back a short laugh. She’s so utterly insistent, hopeful.

  Her face darkens.

  I gesture at the filth and squalor around us. “How do you propose we do that?”

  “We do that by finding the ravens.”

  Maybe she’s as loopy as the golden king was rumored to have gone. “Why? How? We can’t just stuff some birds in a bag and bring them back here.”

  “No, of course not. But you asked why. Because the people were united under them. Because they were the last connection they have to the former king.” She hesitates. “It’s the only thing I can come up with. And you asked, how? You told me that the ravens retreated to the mountains. That’s where we’ll go. Maybe the golden raven can help us. Luckily, I know the way.”

  I shake my head. “No, Kiki. Not the northern mountains.” I turn several degrees, lift my hand, and point at the dark, distant peaks. I lower my voice. “The Morgorthian Mountains.”

  Lacking the sense of defeat I expect, she says, “How do we get there?”

  “We don’t. The fire took all of the maps and sent the best guides to the outerlands.”

  Her lips lift and her eyes sparkle. “We’ll start with the seer.”

  “I don’t think her visions prove very helpful.”

  “Let me rephrase. We’ll have a look at the tapestry on her wall. The one that concealed the exit to the alley.” She struts off, taking her smug smile with her.

  Chapter 10

  Ineke

  Soren hastens to keep up with me. Feeling rather pleased with myself, I explain, “Did you notice the tapestry covering the secret exit?”

  “It was hidden by veils and a haze of smoky incense,” Soren says as we pass an impossibly full wagon, overflowing with scraps of wood and pulled by an impossibly slim donkey.

  For now, I ignore the electric surge I felt when I was helping the woman with her cart. I was overcome with a desire to freeze the guy like an icicle who knocked her down in the street. I take a deep breath. My karate practice was supposed to help me master my anger.

  “The tapestry was also a map,” I say, recalling the way the light blue threads framed the jutting breakwater.

  I was, and still am, so desperate to figure out where Raven’s Landing is relative to home, I couldn’t help but notice it.

  “I don’t think the seer would be so bold as to hang a map outlining the outerlands on the wall of her stall.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  He stops and throws his hands in the air. “It’s forbidden. Have you noticed anything with words or pictures on it in Raven’s Landing?”

  “Only your skin,” I mumble.

  “Every printed thing was burned in the fire. Even shop signs are just symbols.” I point. “And if not, the silver king destroyed it.”

  “So no libraries or internet?”

  “Not sure about the internet, sounds like a Terra thing, but no books period.
Well, except the one I stole and then lost in a lousy wager.”

  When we turn the next corner, I smell the singed scent of candles burning. Something shiny glints in the hardening mud as night falls. “It’s your lucky day,” I say, plucking a coin from the ground and passing it to Soren.

  “That depends on your definition of luck. Tonight is Hallowtide.” He points to a display of candles outside a shop and trades the coin for a greasy brown parcel.

  “Hallowtide?” I ask.

  “It used to be the night to honor the dead and departed.” While Soren opens the greasy bag, he motions that we continue toward the Basin while Soren. He mutters and then passes me a chunk of dry bread.

  I take a small bite and cringe, but hunger overpowers taste. “Is this the brown bread you speak so highly of?”

  “This rot? No. Not at all.”

  I shove a larger piece in my mouth. After I chew what amounts to little more than sawdust, I say, “I’m also hoping the seer can explain curses and how to break them.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Not likely.”

  Once again, multiple seers reach for us with shiny bracelets dangling off their arms, their veils pulled low over their eyes as they offer a vision of the future.

  “What were you were saying about Hallowtide?” I ask Soren.

  “Everyone used to gather along the shoreline, sending candles into the water with prayers, in the hope that they’d reach the departed. Come to think of it, I suppose the practice started with the fae and the Sea of Dreams.”

  I stop short. “Is the Sea of Dreams that way?” I point toward the harbor.

  “No one knows where it really is or if it really is. But I like to imagine my mother there. It sounds like a peaceful place.”

  “A cold place,” I mutter.

  “Now the harbor is filled with bonfires to honor—” He glances at the castle at the same time the seer that we met before says, “I knew you’d be back.”

  “Can we go inside?” I ask.