Fifty-Three
We wait for Vesper to return, then leave the protection of the tree hollow to venture out into the Eldergrove.
Between breaks in the canopy, stars wink within a black velvet sky. There’s only the slimmest crescent of a waning moon tonight, and the golden shimmer that coats so much of the Otherworld plant life is much fainter. I can barely see twenty paces ahead of me. Treacherous, but it means we will be harder to see as well.
Vesper saw smoke a quarter of the way up one of the Brumalts during her scouting trip. It’s a multiple-hour walk from our oak, and though we’re not certain who it is, we have a two-thirds chance of finding an ally. No better or worse than any other direction we could be walking, really.
The Eldergrove is eerily silent; no call of night birds nor scampering of nocturnal creatures. It’s as if the Eternal Motherdecided to bless the dukes and their hunting beasts with as little distraction as possible.
The only sound is the gentle rush of water—likely mountain runoff in the form of a creek or small river—toward which we’re walking.
Aowen doesn’t say a word as she clomps ahead of me through the underbrush, around thick oaks and skinny birches. Old Charlotte might have spent this entire long walk worrying that her reticence meant she was still upset with me over thediamrhán—and yes, I realize now what a stupid,stupiddecision that was. Why did Lachlan not talk me out of it? It would be incredibly useful to be able to communicate. But maybe he wasn’t thinking any more clearly than I was at the time. Maybe the thought of keeping the connection was just as unbearable for him.
Anyway, new Charlotte has decided to take Aowen at her word. She said it was alright. And if she was lying about that? Well, it’s not my responsibility to read her mind, is it?
Still, I cannot help but wish she’d talk to me, if only to stave off the boredom. We’ve been walking for hours. Vesper hangs back with me, but she’s not much of a conversationalist. And she keeps flying off to get a pixie’s-eye view of our route.
I am actually grateful to be a little bored, it’s better than?—
Something crashes through the woods to our left, and Aowen breathes out a soft curse before pulling me behind a fallen log half covered in tiny mushroom ladders.
“Friend or foe?” I search the dark sky for Vesper, who disappeared again a few minutes ago. Maybe she can see who—or what—it is.
A second crash sounds to our right. There is only one duke who has more than one hunting animal by his side.
“Foe,” Aowen whispers simultaneously with my, “Torvil.”
We peek around the log to find a small party gathered in a clearing about a hundred paces away. In the forefront, two large, white-maned heads lap from a puddle—Mortis and Anguis. I stutter out a breath, grateful for Aowen’s foresight with the púca piss. We’re downwind right now, so hopefully they can’t smellanything.
Standing behind the báshounds are two figures. One is unmistakably Torvil, his pale locks a flare in the dark night. If the other figure is his second, then the man should be plainly visible in his silver armour. But he seems to have put on a dark, hooded cloak?
A third figure joins them. Wearing shiny, silver armour. Torvil’sactualsecond.
Torvil’s cheating; he’s brought in a third player.
“What should we do?” I move my lips as little as possible, barely letting the words come out. Those báshounds were bred to do one thing: hunt. I’m sure their hearing is incredibly keen.
“I’ll distract them,” Aowen whispers back. “And you run.”
“Are you mad?” It’s an effort to keep my voice low. “They’ll rip you to pieces.”
She slowly pulls the thorn from her belt loop. “Not if I rip them up first.”
“Aowen, no. If something happens to you, I am … I cannot survive this alone.”
She strokes a hand down my face. “Vesper will help you. And it would be an honor to die defending my queen.”
These stubborn fucking faeries. Since when did I ask anyone to die for me? “I forbid it.” Bone-deep panic forestalls my tears. “If I am your queen, then you must obey me.”
She pats my cheek, then kisses my temple. “Cute.” She picks up an acorn and, before I can make further protest, lobs it over the log. It lands in a pile of leaves, the soft crash apocalyptically loud. “Now,run.”
I sprint away from the log as she steps over it. “Oi! Over here, assholes.”
I hear Torvil snarl, “Find Charlotte,” followed by the thump of báshound paws. Fortunately, they’ve decided to divide and conquer. Unfortunately, one is headed straight for me.
I run as fast as I can, but I don’t want to get too far away from Aowen. What if she’s overconfident? What if they hurt her and she needs my help?
My best option would be to get to higher ground, where the báshounds cannot reach me and I can gain a vantage point toward the clearing.
