Harper’s pale, sweaty face flashes beneath her cowl. She remembers what it feels like inside the beast’s belly. She remembers, as I do, the hair-trigger awareness of having become prey.
My fingers tighten around hers. We may not have entered Under as a team months ago, but even the prickliest rose still blooms. Tonight, we stand together.
Mother Mabel enters first with one of the acolytes, their forms swallowed by the sheets fluttering beneath the archway. In their absence, the women stir uncomfortably, reluctant to brave the enchantment.
“You’re next.” Isobel shoves a pair forward. They stumble, recoiling from the strange, ethereal phenomenon of water falling without a source.
The older woman reaches outward, and her hand passes through without the slightest splash. “It’s dry!”
The two loiter with indecision, then forge ahead. Pair by pair, the Daughters of Thornbrook enter Under. Then, it is our turn.
I am a blade.
Harper and I pass beneath the archway, entering a lush grove carpeted in ferns, their crenated edges just shy of being fully opened. The grassy path curves right, a paler stripe through the rich forestundergrowth. Mother Mabel counts heads and, once satisfied we are all accounted for, gestures for us to follow, her cloak sweeping across the dense understory.
The sky marks a trail of twinkling light as we navigate glens and the widest, deepest rivers. Every so often, something scuttles through the underbrush, tearing screams from the women, who whip their knives free with a complete lack of finesse.
“Stupid fools.” Harper slaps the wrist of a younger girl. “Put that away,” she snarls, and the novitiate is so terrified she returns the dagger to its sheath without question.
“Can’t believe I’m back in this wretched place,” Harper mutters.
I push aside a low-hanging bough, waiting until she passes by before asking, “Then why did you volunteer?”
“I wasn’t going to.” She sniffs, brushes specks of pollen from her scarlet cloak. “But Mother Mabel said you might participate, and I thought it important for me to be here, too.”
Unbelievably, it sounds like an admission. “Are you saying you’re here for moral support?”
“So what if I am?” Arms crossed, she forges down the path, jostling the younger novitiates with far more aggression than is necessary. “Someone has to watch over you.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, though the smile tries its hardest to break free. “Are you forgetting who defeated those darkwalkers?”
“Are you forgetting who convinced Zephyrus to save your life after you were envenomated?”
Fresh nerves stir in my chest at the mention of his name. Harper notices my plummeting mood and sobers. “I’m sorry. I know returning isn’t easy for you.”
There must be something wrong with me, to feel this softness in my heart for the prickliest woman I know. “It will be over soon,” I say. Ihope.
By the time we reach a broad plain, muck coats my boots and the hem of my cloak. In the distance, a bridge arches over a wide, glassy waterway. The River Mur, I assume.
“Nearly there,” Mother Mabel calls over her shoulder. We hurry in single file, crossing the bridge and delving into a vast network of underground tunnels, the walls stained in dim scarlet light. The deeper we journey into the warren, the slower we shuffle, the women dragging their feet as the odor of rot and decay intensifies. Someone gags, and gooseflesh pimples my arms.
Then—light. The tightness in my chest loosens as we enter a soaring stone chamber, its heart claimed by a pond nestled in wildflower-studded grass. Lily pads float upon the crystal pool, and turtles gather on the banks where moonlight pours through the opening above.
Miles Cross.
It’s beautiful. A picturesque painting edged in the softest pastels. And yet, all light must end. Beyond the circle of illumination, the fair folk lie in wait, cloaked in shadow. I glimpse a long-fingered hand, the curve of a ram’s horn. A peal of laughter erupts beyond sight, and the group shudders.
Mother Mabel grips Meirlach’s hilt and scans the area, catching sight of something lurking in the gloom.
A long, milky root slithers from its depths.
My fellow peers shrink as the Orchid King drags his bulk forward. Sweat gleams on his pale torso, every muscle chiseled to perfection. We remember his visit to Thornbrook. We have not forgotten.
“Mother Mabel.” Pierus spreads his arms, flashing a set of straight white teeth. “Welcome.”
The gloom retreats momentarily, revealing a great, three-tiered amphitheater surrounding the field. It appears as though the entirety of Under is present in the audience, every manner of creature and beast.
“Pierus.” Our abbess glides forward with regal authority, her hood pushed back to uncover the pale strands of her hair. Mother Mabel and the Orchid King speak in low tones for a time, and I glance over my shoulder to the tunnel we emerged from. Once the tithe begins, I will be unable to leave. It must be now.
