Page 39

“Easy girl. I’ll go first. You just follow, yes?” I pressed my forehead to Venom’s, letting more of my magic bleed into her to give strength and refresh her energy. I felt her shiver under the invigoration and dance sideways before I reached up and took great care liberating her from the intricately decorated and adorned facial mask the Fae used to control their horses.

The advent of the bit and bridle that humans used had found little interest in the lands populated by Fae. It is hard to convince a creature of magic to slip a piece of metal into the mouth of another creature of magic. Instead, we had crafted hoods that protected our steeds from the whip of branches, guarded their eyes from biting bugs, and afforded us the opportunity to clip on reins when necessary.

I tied the mask to her simple saddle and scratched behind her ear. “Stay close—but if danger comes, flee home to the safety of Silvertree, my dear, sweet Venom.”

Her great head leaned into me and nuzzled my shoulder before she pushed me forward.

Our journey through the bog was slow going. I had to test each path to ensure the soggy ground beneath me would hold both me and Venom. Occasionally, I would look over and see the watery pale faces of the ghosts who had been committed to the safe keeping of the dark waters. Hands would ripple at the edges of the pools of water. Disembodied voices would call my name and nicker to Venom.

The Tears of Odharnait were a harrowing place even for the most valiant of Fae. Conjured from the patron goddess of the Fómhar’s own magic, it was built as a moat that bordered the whole of the Fómhar lands to keep out all potential unwelcome visitors. When the goddess of nightmares, fear, subterfuge, and illusion built something as a gift to her court, it was never a place the rest of us were meant to tread. She would exact her price one way or another.

It was also the shortest and most direct route from the palace to the Crossroads. The tax might be your mount, your sanity, your dreams, or your life, but it was the road that promised the swiftest travel between.

I paused, holding a hand up to Venom as the dark shape of a figure began forming in the fog before us. There was no rush to the easy gait of the body coming from the direction of the Crossroads and headed into the heart of Fómhar territory. I cursed myself for being so foolish as to take off on a cross-country journey without provisions, trade goods, or even the simple protection of a weapon. I had left my sword leaning against the arming racks back at the barbican; in tight quarters with carts coming in and out, it was nothing more than a liability.

Here on the open road, it was a dangerous oversight. One I would have never made if the world was not painted in muted colors, save for the ever-present purple haze floating at the edges of every object and figure, narrowing my view with an amethyst ring around the rim of my vision. The dark sister was always with me, my constant companion.

The Fae who appeared from the mist raised one arm in a hail as he grew nearer. His ears were covered in a simple hood. Warm, orange eyes were decorated with the soft framing of owl’s feathers, spreading out and swallowed by the simple livery of the Crossroads, bearing the open-winged image of an owl across the tabard.

I eyed him warily as he came closer. An Owl of the Crossroads was well known in Magh Meall, messengers and neutral parties by their very association with the Inn at the center of the Crossroads. They had been granted the sole privilege to move between the roads unmolested or taxed by the gentry of the lands since the first crown was placed atop a Fae head.

“Aye there!” he called out, his voice carrying across the spotting pools and making several denizens slip back into their depths.

“Pleasant crossings,” I rumbled, keeping my hip facing him as Venom drew closer.

“Headed down to the Crossroads, then?” He tilted his head like his namesake and let his overly large eyes turn to Venom before ticking back to me.

“Out for a pleasant ride through the country. Fine weather we are having.” I avoided his question.

He clicked a laugh. “Ah, to yourself then, m’lord.”

“And you?”

“To Tromluí Údramáil, I am.”

“Betting on the dogs, then?” My question was less about dog racing and more about the war that must be raging in that manor house over who would take the oak crown now abandoned by my old friend.

“Would that I were, lord. I hear that the race is pitched and thick. Just delivering a message before flying home to my hollow.” I smiled as the young Fae patted his leather bag. “Back where it’s safe. The nightmares are at a fevered pitch.”

The gentle breeze over the bog caught the scent of jasmine, honey, tart milúll, and the distinct crackle of magic, and drew it up to tease at my nose. Everything within me screamed with torment and joy. That was her scent. I had smelled it in my sheets and in the corridors for too long not to have its exact composition carved into my very bones.

“. . . Why the lady thinks she’ll find safe harbor there is anyone’s guess, but she paid me true to deliver a message to the head of the house, and so I’ll do.”

The sound of my heart slamming against my ribs held for a moment to catch that last bit of chatter from the flood of words the young Fae was drowning us in.

“You go to the house of nightmares to solicit an invitation of sanctuary for someone?”

The young Fae paused, realizing his mistake far too late. “Aye, sir. And my banduic knows my route and mission.”

Kill him. Take the letter. Find her. Fuck her. Give her to me, whispered the specter of the dark sister in the back of my mind. It was forbidden to harm a messenger of the owls, but we were alone on the road, with no one but the ghosts of the Tear’s residents to bear witness to my crime. I was, after all, the most loathsome and low Fae of the court, accused of the worst crime already. What was just one more to add to the list?

“Ah,” I said turning to show the now skittish Fae I had no weapon upon me. I didn’t need one. Weapons were just convenience, really. When the bloodlust took me, I was the weapon. “I see she has returned to reading the letters of her patrons then.”

“Aye, sir.” The lie was thick on the air, and I nearly hissed with its taint.

Five feet separated us, not nearly enough for him to flee effectively. Not in the bogs where venturing off the path was a sure death sentence.

My muscles vibrated with urgency as I watched him squirm under my appraisal. Whatever he was carrying to the Fómhar, he would not tell me now, and if it was a message from my little bug requesting sanctuary, that message could never reach them. Once she was beyond the black gates and ensconced in the walls, she was beyond my reach forever. No power, not even the Ard Rí himself, could break the laws of sanctuary once they had been granted. Could he press them with an embargo that would hurt the court? Any other court, yes, absolutely, but the Abhartach were a shadowy court that operated almost completely outside of his control. They were a power unto themselves in some ways—or had been—under Brittle Spear. What his successor would do or be disposed to do was a mystery I didn’t want to gamble with.