I faded.
TWO
Just half of a wicked faerie.
Ihad lived for a long time just to spite death.
I did not fear it, but I loathed it enough to run from its clutches whenever it drew close. Now, I welcomed it. For the one thing I could bear even less than to let death win was to return to a blackstone castle and allow the lordling to make me his slave again.
Death was not so easily convinced to take me. It lurked in the far corners of this darkness, and whenever I tried to stir, it slithered its frigid fingers over me to hold me fast. It seemed not quite to know what to do with me.
I did not notice at first that death faded, and I strengthened.
The howls returned, furious and near. Death had taken too long. I was back in a blackstone castle, trapped in the swamp where hounds prowled bloodied earth and pitch-black waters and their growling never ceased—
Hello, little bird.
A crackle, like branches snapping underfoot or the dance of a flame. That crackle did not belong in the swamp. It continuedmerrily, joined by the gentle creak of wood. The howls softened and harshened like the flow of the tide, and I became slowly assured that it was again a mere trick of the wind.
No, I could not be in the swamp. There was no scent of rotten things, just of parchment and woodsmoke and faintly of herbs, and there was no hollow cold that nestled deep within the flesh.
I was warm; almost too warm.
There came a quiet squeak, a clatter, and a waft of oven-warm bread. The scent drew a sigh from me. In answer, the air beside me stirred with a breath.
I tumbled, heart racing, back into myself like a wildbird shot from the skies. I blinked, breaths quick with terror. A blur hung over the world, as if peering through a misted window. At the edge of my vision lurked a dark figure.
A cracked screech burst from me as I shrank back, but I was in a corner with no escape. Pain split me down the middle. I moaned feebly as darkness threatened to take me again. Huddled against a wall, stiff with fright and anguish, I dug my nails into the knotted scar. I had to be sharp and awake, sharp and awake.
“Calm, girl,” came a grumbling voice. “We mean no harm.”
I had no choice but to heed the words, faint as I was. The figure did not speak while my anguish waned. He sharpened, slowly, into a wrinkled old man who sat beside me in an armchair. He was holding a chalice much too close to my face, the water sloshing as he trembled.
“Drink,” he ordered gruffly.
I took the chalice without complaint. I did not wish to anger him. While I pretended to drink, I observed the man over the rim. He did nothing save stare fretfully past me while he twirled his long silver beard around gnarled fingers. He was not a faerie. Some could shift into wild beasts, others could slip into the bodies of humans. The lordling was a master of this, the many-faced faerie of the swamp. Only the eyes betrayed him—they remained horribly hollow no matter whose face he wore. The old man’s eyes, though unfocused, flickered with life. As strangers went, this one seemed decidedly harmless.
Behind his hunched back, between shelves bending under the weight of leather-bound tomes, a window peeked through lacy curtains. The view revealed nothing of the outside except glaring white. An iron-studded door opened into what appeared to be a snow-trapped garden. If I was quick, I might slip past the man into the snow, but I’d have nowhere to go. Through the window, perhaps, but if I was slow to unlatch the hook he might catch me.
My heart throbbed painfully as I scanned the room. Near the hearth leaned an iron-wrought tool. It felt cruel to wield it against the man when he’d done nothing but offer me water and stare at the wall, but in this land and in this life I could not ever afford to trust a stranger.
I remembered, as I prepared to leap for the tool, that I was in severe pain, that I appeared to be wearing neither a coat nor boots, and that I had not a clue where I’d been taken. Perhaps it was not the wisest plan to knock out and anger the man whose help and information I desperately needed.
Through the window frame whistled a frigid draft that smelled sweetly of frost. It brought the man to a shiver.
“It will be spring soon.”
He shuffled past the narrow bed in which I lay to the flower-tiled hearth. Not to add wood to the fire, but to pull a palm-sized bundle of twigs from his pocket and feed it gently to the flame. I tried to keep my wariness concealed. What a mad thing to do. A strange ache tugged at me, as it often did when something stirred memories of seasons long past. The fire roared to life—as if the man had fed it with oil rather than a bundle of sticks.
“Now, now,” he grumbled into his beard when he returned to sit beside me, and for a long time that was all he said.
“Who are you?”
His fingers stiffened. “The name is Lorell.” He began to stroke his beard again and said wistfully, “Adrik will be back soon.”
There was nothing for me to do save hope that this Adrik would be more forthcoming with information. I needed only to find out where I was, which path led swiftly to Mount Windrest, and to gather a handful of provisions. I’d be back on the road come sunrise.
The wind continued to howl like a hound, and when I listened closely to the sounds that slipped through the door, I was certain I heard the soft hiss of paws in the snow. At last came a warm breeze and the sound of quick, self-important steps. The door slammed against the limewashed wall with a breath of winter wind.
