The world flipped sideways and they plunged into the lake.
The cold of it drove the breath from her lungs. Every muscle seized painfully and she sank for several moments before she began to struggle against the water. Her cloak was a noose around her throat and she fumbled with it, fingers clumsy, until the clasp gave and the fabric drifted away, caught on some invisible current.
It was quiet; the chaos replaced with the heavy silence of water. Ryn kicked, felt her foot make impact with something alive, and she pushed herself upward, arms churning through the water.
Her head broke the surface and she gasped for air. Her hair was in her eyes and she hastily tried to shove it away.
The boat was overturned, and the last remaining oar floated uselessly beside it. Ellis clung to the boat, his long legs kicking at the water. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead and his lips were bloodless, but he was alive.
Ryn swam for him. With every kick, she was sure she’d feel claws or teeth sink into her flesh and drag her under. Fear seemed to slow the world around her, dragging moments into minutes, and several eternities passed in the time it took to get to Ellis. He had seized the oar and thrust it at her. She took one end and he the other—and together, they swam for the shore.
Something shifted in the water. Ryn wasn’t sure what made her want to look down, but she did.
The water beneath them was dark—too dark. As if a creature swam beneath them, just out of kicking distance. Scales glittered, and she caught a glimpse of ridges along its joints. The afanc moved below them as easily as an eel.
This was its home, after all. And they were intruders.
If this were land, they might have been able to run. There was no such opportunity with the cold water tugging at their clothes, with every kick taking them only a short distance. She could not even cry out; she did not have the breath. And even if she had, fear had stolen her words. Her fingers slipped on the oar and she had to grab for it a second time, and then a third. The chill of the lake was slowing her, and she knew that it would kill her just as easily as the afanc could—it would just be a slower sort of death. And she would join all those corpses at the bottom of Llyn Mawr. Her body would rise, with the rest of them, never allowed to rest in the quiet of a grave.
She wondered if this were the afanc’s plan: to let the cold and exertion sap their strength. Perhaps the lake was not only its home, but its trap.
“Keep going,” Ellis was saying—or rather, wheezing. He sounded terrible, and Ryn wondered if they were even going to make it. If the afanc didn’t strike, they still might not be strong enough to reach dry land.
Something caught her around the ankle.
Then she was dragged under.
She thrashed. Arms and free leg cut through the water, stirring up bubbles. The creature’s grip on her was like a band of iron and she could not break it.
She looked down, eyes stinging as she forced them wide, to look upon the afanc.
It must have been a guardian, once. A creature of magic and the depths, trusted to keep Castell Sidi safe from intruders. It was doing so even now, even after the fortress’s residents were gone.
The afanc drew her down, down, into the heart of the lake, and Ryn let it. There was no fighting such a creature with raw strength. The light dimmed, and then something hard rolled along Ryn’s back. A rock.
The bottom of the lake. It had taken her to the bottom. The afanc’s claws pressed her down, but gently so as not to slice her open.
They did not cut and they did not devour. They drowned.
Ryn blinked; the sun was a distant, wobbly thing. Bubbles rose from her lips and nose, and an ache was building behind her ribs. That pain would soon turn to burning agony, and eventually she would try to breathe. Her body would force her—and she would draw in only water, and she would choke on it.
The afanc watched her, impassive, its tail in constant motion. Back and forth, swaying, keeping itself steady amidst the currents. It was waiting, just waiting, because this creature had an eternity while Ryn had only moments.
Her fingers scrabbled along the rocky ground. The soil was soft with silt, crumbling at her touch. Her lungs were beginning to catch fire, and if she was going to act, it had to be now.
She touched a stone that seemed larger than the rest. Her fingers curled around its rough exterior, and before she could hesitate, she drove the rock into one of the afanc’s golden eyes.
The pain startled the creature into a fury. It writhed, tail lashing through the water, and for a moment the claws squeezed Ryn so tightly that her ribs creaked. Its mouth worked, and she thought that if the creature had been human, it would have been screaming.
It pawed at its face, seemingly forgetting its prey. Ryn found herself on the lakebed, freed, her chest hurting so badly that for a moment she wondered if she could even swim. She flipped over, pressing her boots to the ground. A glance, and she saw what she’d used to hit the afanc.
There was a half-shattered skull in her hand. It was a muddy brown, and her fingers had been wrapped through one eye socket.
Ryn realized what she’d been resting upon. Not river rocks—but bones. These shattered fragments must have been too broken for the curse to touch them—or perhaps they simply lacked the pieces to claw their way to shore.
Ryn pushed upward with her legs, using the ground to propel her toward the surface. Her boots felt too heavy, but she dared not pause to pull them free. Her fingers cupped the water, and she pulled herself upward. Her vision was flecked with gray, and she hurt so badly, she thought she might cry out.
Something behind her ribs seemed to snap; she inhaled—a reflex, and it felt as if someone had poured mud into her chest. It burned and was heavy and she was going to die here. Alone, in a lake, so close to Castell Sidi. Like so many others. She’d been arrogant to think she could survive when so many others had perished.
She broke the surface. At first she didn’t realize it, and her arms kept moving, trying to swim. The air was warm and sweet as summer sunshine, and she dragged it into her. It still hurt; her lungs were on fire, even as the rest of her was freezing.
She swam. She wasn’t sure she had anything left to give to the swim, but she threw herself into the motions, heading for the dark smudge that was Castell Sidi.
With every stroke, she was sure she would feel the touch of the afanc again. That it would recover and come for her, driven by pain and fury.
Her fingers struck something hard. She’d never been more exhausted or scared, and all she wanted was—
Shore.
She was touching the shore.
With what little strength was left to her, Ryn dragged herself out of the lake. The ground was pebbled and damp, and as comfortable as any bed. She lay there, cheek pressed to the ground, breathing. Just breathing.
And then there were hands on her. Warm hands, pushing the sopping hair away from her eyes and touching her throat. She was distantly aware of someone saying her name, helping her onto her side.
Ellis. It was Ellis.
She wanted to sob with relief. She wanted to throw her arms around him, hold on until she was sure they were both all right, until she’d worked up the nerve to press her face into the hollow of his shoulder.
Ryn didn’t do any of those things. What she did was roll onto her side and vomit lake water.
CHAPTER 26
IT WAS NOT her most dignified moment.
There was a lot of gagging and gasping, throat burning and eyes streaming. And then there was Ellis, helping drag her farther up the shore, away from the lapping waters of the lake. She was glad to get away from it; she didn’t think she’d ever swim in a lake for the rest of her days.
Once she’d stopped sputtering, she lay on her back, focusing on one breath and the next.
Finally, Ryn pushed herself to her elbows. Ellis sat beside her, legs crossed. He’d pushed his waterlogged hair out of his eyes, making his forehead seem even higher than usual. A red welt was raised al
ong his cheek, and she could see the places where it would deepen into a bruise. “I saved my pack,” he said, sounding both exhausted and triumphant. “Only a little water got in.”
“Good,” she rasped. “At least we’ll have plenty of parchment.”
He inhaled deeply, and then released the breath. “What about you?”
The loss of an axe shouldn’t have sent a pang through her, but it did. She closed her eyes, then reopened them. There was little to be gained by wallowing. “I didn’t manage to keep anything. Too busy trying not to die.”
“I appreciate that,” he said, smiling a little.
He held out a hand and she took it, allowing him to haul her upright.
Her gaze swept past him, and she felt her breathing quicken.
Castell Sidi stood before them.
There was no drawbridge—there would be no need, with the lake guarded by a monster. But she could see the battlements, the chipped stone where arrows must have struck. There were at least eight distinct towers, taller than any trees, and they cast long shadows across the ground. She tried to conjure up the old tales of the battle of Gwydion of Dôn and his family against Arawn and his court.
In the end, Gwydion had won. Not with magic or swords—but with a name. He’d called out the true name of Arawn’s champion, thus reducing the champion’s power and ending the battle.
Her hand rose and touched the heavy fortress wall. Wind had worn it smooth.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s find a way inside.”
As they circled the castell, Ryn could see how the place had once been a community: Inside the fortress walls, the main structure was accompanied by several smaller buildings. Cottages were set alongside the stone walls, and the shape of a barn was farther west. The grass was overgrown with late-harvest wildflowers. Beads of white blossoms gleamed amidst the grasses. Birds circled overhead, chittering at one another. Nests had been tucked into the broken stones, high above the reach of any predator.
They entered through the granary tower. All that remained of the outdoor oven was a pile of rocks, making it appear more like a burial mound than a stove. There was a small door, and using one of those rocks, Ryn managed to bash the hinges until it gave. With a push, the door fell half in. It was enough space to slip through.
The air was still. Almost too still, untouched by breezes or the movement of animals. It had a stale dampness to it, and she shivered as she walked into the large room. There were tables of all sorts, barrels stacked high, and gleaming glass jars sealed with dusty wax. Her hand came up unbidden, but Ellis touched her arm, drawing her back. “I wouldn’t touch anything,” he said quietly. “What if there are other enchantments?”
Ryn understood his trepidation; she felt it, too. The ceilings were too high, the rooms too large, and the shadows too thick. This fortress was not meant for humans, not unless they were invited to join the wild hunt or were guests of the tylwyth teg.
They walked through a hallway that led into one of the inner wards. It must have been some sort of meeting room, with a long slab of wood serving as a table. It looked as though it had been cut from the heart of a thousand-year-old tree.
There was no one living there; of that she was sure. The dust was settled, the stillness absolute. There were no signs of occupation, of anything breathing or—
Something whooshed overhead and Ryn found herself ducking, falling to her knees. Ellis made a sharp, startled noise.
A bird sat on a chandelier overhead, gazing down at them.
The chandelier was not made of metal or glass—but of antlers. The bird bobbed its head, examining the intruders. Ryn raised her hand in silent greeting, as if the bird might understand. Perhaps it would.
She stepped through another doorway, and the room opened up. She felt almost as if she’d stepped outside again—the ceiling was so high.
And at the center of the room was a statue.
It looked to be made of wood, but that could not be right—wood would have lost some of its luster. It was only when she saw the dried and scattered leaves that she realized the sculpture was a living tree, dormant for the winter. Its branches, trunk, even the roots were shaped to give the appearance of a man. He stood in still repose, one hand raised as if in greeting and the other clasping a sword. His helmet curved into the lines of a buck’s horns, giving him an otherworldly beauty.
“King Arawn,” she said. She half expected the statue to answer, but it remained still. She bowed her head, if only for a moment.
This must have been a great hall once, a place where visitors might see the wonders of Castell Sidi. Its beauty yet remained—like a flower pressed between the pages of a book. The colors had faded, but the lines and form were still lovely. The revels of the Otherking must have been held here, and for a moment, she let herself imagine it. Gowns of seafoam and lace, brows adorned with leaves and glittering gems, chalices brimming with spring wines, and above all, the Otherking with his antler crown. She found herself moving slowly, fearing to disturb even the leaves with her footsteps. This was the hall of a king, and she felt grubby and gawky, still shivering from the chill of the lake.
“I can’t believe he would have abandoned this place,” said Ellis softly.
“He must have despaired of humans,” said Ryn. “After Gwydion stole from him, then waged war upon him, Arawn must have thought humans weren’t worth staying for. He took his court and all his magic and sailed away.”
Seeing the great hall was bittersweet, a taste of a world long past, and she longed for more. Part of her yearned to sweep away the fallen leaves and cobwebs, light the candles, and bring warmth back to Castell Sidi. It had the sense of a slumbering beast, one that might awaken if the right hands tended to it.
But even as she marveled, she knew this place could never be hers. It was not meant for the likes of humans. The mother and her infant son had dared to live here, and the mother’s actions had awoken the bone houses. It would be folly to remain, to dwell here—but Ryn could see why a person would want to.
“We need to find the cauldron,” she said, keeping her voice low.
Ellis’s eyes roamed over the great hall, taking in the high windows and birds nesting overhead. His lips moved silently for a moment. Then he shook himself. “Ah—right.” He pursed his lips. “We could search more quickly if we split up.”
“Do you think that’s safe?”
Ellis twitched his good shoulder in a shrug. “Nothing about this place is safe. Which is why I wouldn’t tarry here. Your legend said that the cauldron needed to boil the water within it—we should check those rooms with fireplaces first.”
“All right.” Part of her yearned for solitude; the chaos of the last few days pressed down on her, and she might buckle under the weight. “But we should meet back in a few hours. Say… two?”
“I’ll take the eastern towers,” he replied. “You take the west.” He hesitated, sliding a look toward the living-tree statue before turning away. He seemed distant, distracted. He strode through a doorway and vanished into the corridor beyond.
Ryn did not move. Her chest shuddered, and the noise she made sounded like a hiccup. Her legs trembled and she found herself sitting in one of the dusty chairs. She was not sure why this place affected her so, but it did. It was every old tale, every bedtime story, every glimpse of wicked wildness she’d seen at the edges of the forest, every monster and every hero. And she wished so badly she might have shared it with her father.
She thought of the dead man wandering the wilds, in a gray cloak, carrying half of a wooden spoon.
Another sharp rasp pinched her lungs; she was not quite crying, but close. She squeezed her eyes shut against the burn of tears.
Her father had led her here—as if he’d known what she intended. And perhaps he had. Perhaps he’d always known she would come here, chasing the old stories to their source, because she was the kind of person who did not know how to let go.
She thought of her hand in his, of gripping his worn
fingers with her small ones.
She thought of an old dead woman in a rocking chair, because her daughter couldn’t bear for her to leave.
She thought of the Otherking, leaving his home because he could not stay.
And she thought of a mother, holding her dead child and the broken cauldron of rebirth.
Her hand tightened around the broken spoon and she let the jagged waves of grief wash over her.
Ellis had not been sure what to expect of Castell Sidi.
He knew some of the stories. Bards had sung them in the hall at Caer Aberhen, trading songs for a bowl of warm rabbit cawl and a straw mattress. He had heard tales of the immortal tylwyth teg, of great bloody battles, and of feasts. He had expected the castell to be something risen from a myth: unknowable and unwelcoming.
He had never expected to feel so comfortable here.
As he walked the halls of the old fortress, his heartbeat eased into a steady rhythm and his breathing evened out. Perhaps it was because he had grown up in a place much like this: Caer Aberhen was less grand, but it was still a fortress. It had towers and walls, a great hall, high windows, and servants trying to keep birds from the rafters.
To him, home was—it was letters slipped between the pages of a leather-bound book and the small white wildflowers that grew beneath his bedroom window. It was honey over warm porridge, the scent of wet stone in the spring rains, and the humming of the cooks in the kitchen.
Home was taste and smell and sensation. It was not a place.
But this place felt like it could be someone’s home.
He walked through one corridor after another until he found himself in the deepest rooms. These had to be the king’s sitting rooms; with several walls of stone between these quarters and the outside, it would be the safest place in the fortress. A large fireplace stretched out along one wall; there were still ashes dusting the floor, and the tapestries were heavy with cobwebs. But it did not detract from the majesty of this place.
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