6
Maddox
“Lies are like termites. You cannot see the damage they have done until it is too late.”
— A Seelie Guide to Living Well
Istill remember the first lie I told.
My father asked me why my knees were bleeding, and instead of admitting that I snuck down to the river where I was not meant to go, I claimed there was a wolf by the camp. This was the first and last time he looked at me with pride in his eyes. I thought, how bad could this lie be when it earned me a pat on the shoulder and a gruff, “You have pleased me with your bravery,” from a male who reserved his kind words for his mate?
Lies are funny things. They can get you out of trouble almost as often as they can get you into it.
Unfortunately, yesterday’s lie did the latter.
This morning, I left Biscuits behind in the castle garden, with the flowers, grass, and sunshine. There is no telling what would happen if I brought him across the temporary bridge that spansthe canyon between the Seelie and Unseelie lands with boards that creak when you walk on them.
Ever says the new bridge should be finished within the month. I will not be sorry to see this one burned like the last.
A single wrong step of Biscuits’s tiny hoof, and he could tumble into the canyon below. Even if he did survive the crossing, he would not leave our camp alive.
The moment our clan saw him, they would boil him in a stew.
No, my Biscuits is much safer on Seelie land.
But perhaps I am not. Perhaps I belong here, where the fog is thick and the world is dark and gray. The wolves could devour me for supper, but at least I would go quickly instead of dying this slow, lonely death of heartache.
Bones line the path as I enter camp. Some are from beasts I’ve killed. Not as many as I claimed. I am a skilled shot with a bow, but there are times when I get distracted by silly things like the shape of an odd leaf, or I accidentally shoot my friend in the foot.
However, to admit such weaknesses would only end in disaster. Failing to provide for the clan is a sure path to exile. Being cut off from the clan’s resources would have meant certain death.
Food here is scarce, especially in winter. There are no shops or cafés selling pretty pies. We must rely on ourselves to survive. Thankfully, my friends allowed me to claim many of their kills as my own.
I nod to River and Rynan where they pack arrows into quivers, then wave to two of the younger females hanging laundry on a line stretched between two wagons. None return the gestures, but I am already too distraught to let their slights add to my woes.
Wren smiles up at Ivan from their fire, fresh mating bonds marked on her skin. For a short time, I thought perhaps Wren would be the mate for me.
She thought we were only friends.
Alas, Wren and Ivan are well-suited. Meant to be.
A lie I tell to convince myself that I am worth loving.
I continue to the edge of camp nearest the forest, where my second-oldest friend, Gryffin, is stomping down the two stairs behind his wagon. No one looks his way, and he pays them no mind. He is almost always alone but never seems lonely.
If only I knew how to be that way.
I crave people. This is why I believed Rosehill would suit me. In the wake of my latest lie, I am not so certain that is the case.
“Why is your face like that?” Gryffin asks, using a lopsided stump as his chair. A pot bubbles steadily over a small fire, the scent of smoke and spices heavy in the air. A spit with what looks like a rabbit hangs next to it.
“My face is no different than it was the last day you saw me.” I sink down onto the dirt beside him and reach for the pot. Gryff warns me not to do it, but he is too late. I have already dipped a finger into the reddish mixture. The moment I stick my finger into my mouth, I immediately regret my life’s choices, coughing until my eyes water.
Part of me wonders if he makes everything so spicy to keep others from asking for what is his.
With a command to keep my filthy paws out of his breakfast, he picks up the walking stick he has been carving for as long as I can recall, then reaches for his chisel. “You look as if you are about to cry. Did someone eat your goat?”
As if I would allow such a terrible fate to befall my favorite pet. “No. My Biscuits is safe.”
