I slip inside and close the door behind me. Leaning against it, I press my palms flat against the wood and breathe.
Be careful. Scream quietly. Don’t make yourself a target.
All good advice, but how am I supposed to follow it when I can still see the cages, still smell the filth, and hear his damned voice?
TWENTY
CAIRN
I’ve spenthours moving through the forest to the north of the Dell.Notthe one they own with warded boundaries where they hunt my kind. This one is older, with many places a solitary fae could hide. That wouldn’t do for a business that prides itself on giving paying humans a guaranteed fae death. This is a forest that existed long before humans started carving the world into their own image.
I take my time tracking game trails, checking sight lines, and finding water sources. The forest starts three miles from the Dell, rocky ground giving way to a thick undergrowth, with the canopy closing overhead until the light turns green and dim. It’s filled with ancient trees, their trunks wider than three men standing shoulder to shoulder, roots knotted deep into soil that hasn’t been turned by human hands.
I find a sheltered hollow, deep in the forest. It took me three hours to reach it on foot, it will take longer to reach with fae who can barely walk. But it’s defensible, with steep banks on three sides, and a stream cutting through the base. There’s enough tree cover to hide our numbers from anyone not standing directly ontop of us. It will work as a place to catch our breath before the humans come hunting.
Because they will. The mage has likely already started talking.
I crouch at the base of an oak and run my fingers through the soil. It’s damp, which means it’s rained recently. Andthatmeans the tracks we leave will be visible for days unless we’re careful.
Wewon’tbe careful. We’ll be slow, loud and obvious. We might as well light signal fires.
The thought should worry me more than it does. Instead, anticipation coils through my chest.
Let them come. Let them see what happens when the collars come off.
I rise and start back toward the Dell, fixing the route in my head, the problems we might face, and all the other things I haven’t had to think about for centuries.
The compound comes into view as the sun climbs higher. From this distance it looks like an ordinary, peaceful morning. No one traveling past would have any idea that the wooden buildings clustered behind the fencing hides fae, or that the smoke rising isn’t from cookfires or hearths, but from the burned bodies of the humans who lived and worked here.
The cages are out of sight from here. So is Cowen’s head, still mounted on its hook in the main hall. It can remain there as a warning for whoever comes to investigate. Let them see exactly what we think of what they’ve done.
Therin is in the courtyard when I walk through the gates, sitting on an overturned water trough with a sword across his knees. He’s running a whetstone along the edge with the kind of focused attention he usually reserves for things he’s about to kill. The blade isn’t his. This one is human-made, plain steel, and nothing like the weapons we usually carry. But he’s treating it like it’s something worth caring about anyway.
“You look like you’re planning to bond with that thing.”
He doesn’t look up. “Might have to. It’s the only blade here that doesn’t make me want to weep.” He holds it up, squinting at the edge. “Human smithing. They still can’t forge a proper sword.”
“They’ve been busy building cages.”
“Priorities.” He snorts, setting the whetstone aside. “You were gone for a while. Find anything useful?”
“There’s a hollow to the north that will suffice.” I lean against the stable wall. “It’s not much, but?—”
“It’s more than we had yesterday.”
“That’s becoming a theme.”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile but close. “Vel’s inside. She’s been counting things all morning. Carts, horses, supplies. She’s made lists.”
“Just lists?”
“I’m not ruling out charts.” He picks up the whetstone again. “Fair warning, she has opinions about everything.”
“When doesn’t she?”
I push off from the wall and head for the lodge. The courtyard is full of fae. Some moving between buildings, others handing out food, and some just standing in the open, faces raised to the sun. A few look up when I pass. Most don’t.
Cowen’s head, still hanging in the lodge, has started to attract flies. Someone should do something about that, but it won’t be me and it won’t be today. Vel is at the far end of the hall, crouched beside a pile of harnesses with a piece of charcoal in her hand and a torn canvas spread across the floor.
