Taran gives me a comforting squeeze. “Long ago, when the Land was young and Lyndir still fae, Anwen was a princess of the Evermoor line. Her father, the king, brought her to a great meeting between the leaders of all the realms and their families, and it was there she met Iorweth, the son of Ystyr’s queen. It was love at first sight.”
I glance at Taran’s face, his gaze focused on the waters ahead.
“But they could not be,” he continues. “Aedys and Ystyr refused to unite their realms, each wishing to keep their own power. And Lyndir and Llynos wouldn’t allow such an alliance to form between their rivals. So Anwen and her love fled in the night, to the frozen north, where they hoped to live out their days in secret.”
The tension in my body melts away, lulled by Taran’s steady voice, and my breathing calms.
“Unfortunately, her father’s men found them. They killed Iorweth in his sleep, as he lay in Anwen’s arms. Her grief was so encompassing that the Land’s heart broke for her, cracking the earth across the entire stretch of the north and south. Anwen’s anguish swallowed her, and the gash in the Land filled with her tears, becoming the mighty river that would forever connect the north and the south.”
My brow crinkles. “Did that really happen?”
“It must have. Or enough believe it, that it’s become the truth.”
I don’t think truth works that way…“What happened to her father? Did he regret what he’d done?”
“The story doesn’t say. The Evermoor line continued, so he must have had another child.” He nods ahead. “We’ve made it. I’ll hold back the water while you climb the bank.”
There’s about three feet of mud and rock for me to climb, and he steadies me with his arm as I attempt to do so while getting the least amount of muck on my coat as possible. It squishes between my fingers, cold as ice. By the time I reach the top, mud covers my hands and boots, but the rest of me remains fairly clean.
Taran, surprisingly, has a more difficult time of it, since he can only use one hand. He slips, and I lunge forward, grabbing him with muddy hands. I yank him onto the grass as the water collapses behind him. My back hits against the ground, and Taran lands on top of me, his face inches from mine.
Our eyes meet for an instant before he scrambles up.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m alright.” I sit myself up, holding back a laugh at the embarrassed flush of his cheeks. It’s the second time his serious demeanor has dropped, letting a boyish charm peek through that feels so familiar, despite its rarity. “A bit muddier than I’d like, but no harm done.” I hold out my hands as evidence.
Taran exhales, then turns back to the river to rinse the mud from his hands. “Clean up quickly so we can go.”
“Yes, we’re far too exposed out here, I know.” I kneel beside him to rinse my hands.
He lets out a sigh that almost sounds like a laugh, then flicks my shoulder as he stands. “Hurry up.”
I bite back a chuckle as I dry my hands on the grass, then follow.
* * *
After what must be a couple bells later, we arrive at a fae village.
Taran calls it Ashbourne and tells me how it was built from the remains of an older city, Greenfair, that was destroyed in a forest fire less than a decade earlier. While most of the survivors fled to nearby towns, some stayed behind, determined to rebuild. The result is a fairly unique fae settlement, according to Taran, but I have nothing to compare it to.
Unlike the first forest we traveled through in the faelands, with tall, thick trees whose branches blocked out the sun, those here are mostly young. The sunlight easily permeates their leaves, lighting up a forest floor filled with tall grasses and ferns. Scattered among the trees stand somewhere between ten and twenty huts of various sizes made of mismatched pieces of wood. Many are scorched and blackened, in sharp contrast to the pale tones of the trees that somehow bleed a depth of color.
I have so many questions, but Taran’s made it very clear this is not the time. So it’s up to me to pay attention and find the answers myself.
With both our hoods up, he leads me around the outskirts of the village toward one of the larger huts. A couple fae glance over as we pass, pausing curiously.
“Maybe we should act less suspicious?” I whisper.
His jaw tightens, then he snatches my hand and pulls me along, tension radiating from his body. When we arrive at the door, he bangs on it impatiently.
Once it opens, Taran presses me inside the decently sized room—deer and antler motifs decorate the wooden walls, while fur rugs cover the dirt floor. The man before us sputters in protest as he steps back, then recovers with a rushed bow.
“Your Highness,” he says, his voice pitching up as he straightens his shirt. “What are you doing here?”
While he looks to be a man in his early forties, with long blond hair he wears braided down his back, he could be three hundred for all I know. Like Taran and Emlyn, his angular face is completely smooth. Do fae men not grow facial hair?
Taran covers a nearby window with an animal pelt that hangs across it. “Calm yourself, Merfyn. Tell me what you’ve heard.”
