A hardened green gem rests on the earth beside me. Faery blood looks no different than emeralds when it dries. Either we missed this evidence earlier or the thing that attacked me is a faery. Neither answer is pleasing. I think, though, that I have injured it. I doubt the Hunter and I would both have missed faery blood.
Unsteadily I roll over, away from the mound of ash and charred bone that I’ve disturbed. I cannot grab the faery blood until I know I’m alone now. Survival first, evidence second.
Yet in rolling over, I am forcefully reminded that the back of my head was struck. I push to sitting, and as I do the world spins dizzyingly. Blood from a cut on my upper arm drips and trickles from there to my wrist like a line of ants marching. It was a glancing cut, at least—I see no bone under the red smear visible in the tear of my dress.
I cannot be sure I can stand, much less fight, but I fumble on the ground until I can grip the hilt of my sword, nonetheless. With my other hand, I touch the back of my head. My hand comes away wet. The blood is still fresh and red in my hand, not yet congealed.Has it been only a moment?I wipe the blood on the skirt of my already ruined dress and stumble to standing.
I sway even after I plant my feet in a fighting stance. My voice is weak even to my own ears as I say, “Hello?”
The only sounds are the leaves unsettled by the wind, rustling together like the shifting of taffeta skirts at overcrowded balls, and a few steady dripping sounds as water rolls over leaves and onto stone or log underneath. No mad laughter. No screams.
I scan the undergrowth, wondering whether there is another victim. I would say the scream was a woman’s, but sometimes a man’s scream can be that high and desperate. I would say it was human, but not all faeries sound like beasts. Louder this time, I call, “Hello!”
Listening for sounds of distress, I wobble away from the ash pile with my sword at the ready.
Minutes tick by. I see neither victim nor my horse. I see no monsters or even wildlife. I am seemingly alone in Brimmond Wood for the moment—but I very clearly was not. Someone or something hit the back of my head. My hat is gone, and my two long braids dangle loose. I am torn between unraveling them to hide my injury and the reality that fighting is harder when I can’t see well.
“Hello!” I yell, louder now. The thudding pain in my head reacts poorly to my yell.
This time, I am greeted by a voice saying, “There you are!”
Faeries don’t speak, though, at least not the sorts that are tolerated in our world. Those that do are forbidden entry by the Queens’ Treaty. The voice is not pained either, so I cannot think this is a victim. A crashing through the forest is accompanied by a rider leading my own steed my way. Though the rider and horses are not yet upon me, I know that shape as well as my own. I could identify her in a dark room by feel alone. Isabeau.
My hand on my hilt tightens, and I step on the faery blood. I don’t want her to see it. I certainly don’t want her to have reason to ask why I am alone in the woods with faery blood beside me. A quick look at her shows no injury. She was not my attacker.
I hate that the thought even enters my mind. Even when she was cross with me, Isabeau treated me as if I were made of delicate crystal. She, however, acts as if she is invincible. I admire her approach. Isabeau rides the way she does almost everything, as if time’s sands can be outrun. When she stops, she is standing at my side too quickly, too eagerly, and I take a step backward.
“Gabrielle? Love?” Isabeau holds my gaze but does not close the distance I’ve created.
“Were you here?” I do not think the scream was hers, but I need to know. Did the creature threaten her, too?
“In the forest?” She frowns, eyes darting away from mine now. “No. When I saw your horse loitering outside the castle, I thought you might have waited to talk ...”
“I did not.”
“Were you thrown?” Isabeau looks me over, taking in the bloody smear now on my skirt and the leaves that cling everywhere.
With my swordless hand, I brush away ashes, not wanting to have her realize that the remains of the dead cling to me. I reach the bottom of my skirt and scoop up the hardened faery blood and a good handfulof dirt. I shove it in my pocket as I ask, “Did you see anyone when you were riding? Anything?”
“Were you attacked?”
“You asked that earlier, as well,” I point out. “I am fine. Are attacks frequent here?”
Her night-dark horse moves closer, as if expecting her to return to their ride. Isabeau absently reaches back and strokes the massive steed as she mentions, “The passageway to Faerie is here in Brimmond Wood, past all the brambles. I would think the earl would have mentioned that to you by now.”
I stifle a smile. My father has done far more than mention it. We’ve stood at the gateway, and I felt its vibration as if something deadly summoned me. He said that was because I am the next Hunter, that even the gate sees me as a threat, but I heard a lie in his words. I simply don’t know what the lie is.
“I’ve seen it,” I say with a lightness I don’t feel. My sword is still in my hand, but I am hesitant to sheathe it. Something attacked me, though I don’t want to say as much to Isabeau. “Did you see a cat sìth?”
“No.” Isabeau nods toward my sword. “However, that’s a small sword for battling a cat sìth. And they are peaceful, you realize?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“If a cat sìth startled you and you lost your seat, that’s not intentional.” She gives me a superior look, as if she is schooling me on faeries. Since she has no idea of my duty, my future, I suppose she might think she is doing so. Pride wars with the temptation to accept an easy answer. Do I let her think my fall was because my horse unseated me? Or do I tell her the truth?
“Did you hear a scream?” I press.
“I did. Yours, I presume?”
