by Sam Ledel
A clamor of steps sounded from the hallway outside, and Aurelia stood straighter to find her father sprinting into the room. He too wore a disheveled night robe and was barefoot, and his curly hair and beard were wild from sleep. “Dechtire!” he shouted, still running. “I’ve got it!”
Upon reaching them, he handed her a pear-shaped black vial with a stopper in its top. Her mother took it eagerly, and her father stood beside her, forming a circle around Brennus splayed out on the table below them. When her brother took a labored breath, Aurelia tried to ignore the crackling sound behind his ribs.
“What is that?” she finally asked as her mother yanked out the cork. A scent like mulch wafted from the vial. She, Roisin, and Drest covered their noses.
The baron leaned forward, his face incredulous. “Is that—”
Her father nodded. “Water from the Well of Slaine.”
Aurelia gaped, exchanging glances with Roisin. “But the Well of Slaine is a myth. That’s what you taught me,” she said, looking at her mother, who motioned for Drest to remove his hands again.
“I taught you that as a precaution. The Well of Slaine is dangerous to those who don’t know how to use its water properly.”
Aurelia was stunned. Her mother had lied to her. But more than that, she was shocked that something she had formerly believed to be a tall tale had actually been sitting inside her mother’s medicinal cabinet this entire time.
“The waters are powerful.” Taken aback, Aurelia recited the information her mother had read to her years before. “They are capable of reviving the lost. Used most often in…in bringing fallen soldiers back from the dead.”
Her mother’s hand, which held the tipped vial over the wound in Brennus’s side, froze. She met her daughter’s gaze. “That’s correct.”
“But Brennus isn’t…”
The look in her mother’s eyes told her all she needed to know. Nodding, Aurelia stepped back with Drest as her mother poured three drops from the vial into the gaping wound. The water hissed when it hit the blood, and Brennus’s eyes flew open. He screamed, deep and primal, and began to thrash wildly.
“Hold him down!” her mother ordered. She, her father, the baron, and Drest all grabbed on to Brennus as his body spasmed and smacked against the table. Aurelia lifted a hand to her mouth. Pain etched itself into every corner of her brother’s face. When his neck bent backward in another yell, she couldn’t watch any longer and turned to hide her face in Roisin’s shoulder.
“It’ll be over soon, m’lady,” she whispered. But even Roisin didn’t sound as if she believed that to be true.
Brennus’s screams continued while the others fought to keep him on the table. Aurelia’s tears ran down her cheeks as she clung to Roisin, looking away. The sound was unbearable. After another minute, she couldn’t take any more.
“Stop it! Can’t you see it’s only making him worse?” She turned to her mother and father. They looked up, maintaining firm grips on her brother’s limbs. But as they did, Brennus finally stopped. His body heaved in one final spasm, then his mouth fell slack, and his legs collapsed onto the table. For one terrifying moment, none of them moved. They watched his chest. When it didn’t rise, Aurelia bit her quivering lip. She was about to reach out to touch him when he gasped.
“My son!” their father exclaimed, crouching down to hold Brennus’s hand. Her brother’s eyes were open, his gaze clearer. Their mother was crying, and she joined her father kneeling on the floor.
Baron Louarn collapsed back into his chair with one hand on his chest. Roisin moved forward with Aurelia. Drest wiped his brow and looked as shocked as Aurelia felt at the sight of her brother attempting to sit up, the color returning to his face.
“You’re all right!” said Drest. Aurelia heard a question in his voice but brushed it off to help her brother.
Still sputtering bits of blood, Brennus managed to sit up with help from their mother and Drest. Meanwhile, the blood that had been gushing from his side halted as if a dam had suddenly been built. Aurelia took in her brother’s cracked lips, the deep circles under his eyes…even though he was moving again, he looked incredibly unwell. She wondered exactly how the water from the Well of Slaine worked.
Brennus propped himself up with a grimace. “By everyone’s faces, I fear I left the stable gate open again.” They all laughed at his first words since he had been brought in. Relief washed over the room and ran from their eyes in grateful tears.
Roisin clapped her hands joyfully. “By the Gods, it’s a miracle!”
Aurelia pushed aside more of the dining plates and climbed on top of the table. “I don’t believe it.” She sat opposite him and stared at his weak smile, his hunched shoulder, and the four-inch hole in his side.
“Neither do I,” he breathed, looking around at the bewildered faces surrounding him. Brennus met their parents’ gaze. “Did I miss dinner?”
Their father wiped tears from his eyes, and their mother pulled Brennus into a hug. Aurelia jumped on top of them, embracing her brother with every ounce of strength she had.
“I can’t believe it,” Drest said, shaking his head. He smiled, and Brennus reached out. They shook hands. “I thought we’d lost you.”
Brennus grinned. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.”
Sitting back, Aurelia sniffled. Everyone wiped their faces clean when the baron asked, “What do you remember?”
They sat attentively. Brennus frowned. “I don’t…I don’t remember much.” He reached up to rub his forehead, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. My head…it aches so.”
Their mother stood. “Of course, darling. We can save the investigation for the morning,” she announced, shooting the baron a look. “You need to rest.”
“That sounds like just what the herbalist ordered,” Brennus said tiredly. “Aurelia,” he added, “you owe me a duel in the morning, what do you say?”
She nodded. “Absolutely.”
But when their father leaned down to lift Brennus from the table, her brother let out a string of coughs. Blood spat from his mouth and into his open hand. His eyes went wide, and his hand flew to his chest.
“Brennus, are you all right?”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he fell instantly onto the table, his body shaking uncontrollably once again with spasms.
“Brennus!” their mother shouted. She and their father braced their hands on his shoulders to quell his movements, but it was to no avail. They stepped back and watched helplessly as their son’s body shook with agonizing force. When blood trickled from his ears and nose, Aurelia cried out.
“Mother, what’s happening? What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know!” she cried. They both looked to her father, who shook his head, his eyes filled with terror. That was when her mother grabbed the arrow that had been cast aside by Drest. “Is this what was in his side?”
Drest, who watched bewildered while his best friend continued to seize, only nodded. She lifted the arrowhead to her nose. Then she licked the tip of it and immediately spat.
Aurelia felt sick. “What is it?”
Her mother’s gaze was empty when she said, “Poison.”
The air was sucked from the room. Her father took a knee next to his son. Blood ran from every orifice in Brennus’s face, and the blood from his wound turned a sickly brown as it bubbled onto the table. Aurelia shuddered when her brother’s chest heaved one final time.
Then everything was quiet.
Chapter Twelve
Groaning, Jastyn stirred where she lay on the edge of Eegit’s clearing. Her back was stiff, and a creak sprang from her neck when she pushed herself up with her palms, wet grass clinging to them as she shielded her eyes from the sunlight. The sweet smell of damp holly shrubs bombarded her senses. She sat up blinking and leaned against a tree trunk.
“When did I fall asleep?” she called to Eegit, who was hunched over her ever-burning fire. The flames—red today—crackled under what appeared to
be an already fading midday sun.
Eegit smashed a handful of elderberries onto the flames, prompting a pop followed by a satisfied hiss. “When the rain let up. After you stopped all of that carrying on about the Red One.”
Wiping her face and brushing away strands of hair fallen from her braid, Jastyn frowned. She stood, stretched, and wandered past her nearly empty satchel lying at the base of a tree and joined Eegit.
“The gods almost extinguished all of my hard work with that storm of theirs,” Eegit scowled up at the now clear sky. “But my protection spell held strong while I worked to drag you away from the bedlam of last night.”
Jastyn shot her a look. Yawning, she plopped next to the fire. Eegit grabbed an expired toad from a tin bucket, yanked off its legs, and threw them into the flames. Meanwhile, the events from the night before returned to Jastyn’s mind’s eye.
“Don’t dwell, child,” Eegit muttered, reading Jastyn’s mind.
When Jastyn looked, the haze of disappointment from letting Alanna down last night clouded her vision. Eegit squinted. “Come. We must eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Nor am I!” Eegit countered, hopping toward her hut. “But, as they say, ‘a cured meat cures all!’” Before passing into her dim home, she turned. “Squirrel or rabbit; take your pick!”
* * *
Later, Jastyn and Eegit sat opposite each other by the fire, which smelled of meat and singed fur. The sun, beginning its descent, sent shadows across the clearing. Jastyn munched on the thin pieces of meat between the ribs of a roasted squirrel, her gaze unfocused. While her eyes fixed on the lambent fire, her ears pricked at the sounds of the Wood: the settling of birds’ wings as they took to their nests, a croaking frog singing to the brook, and the distant, waking howl of a wolf greeting the coming night. Running her tongue over her teeth for any lingering scraps, Jastyn tilted her head at the faint snap of a branch.
Eegit grunted. “That will be your spotted friend.”
Jastyn finished her dinner. After several minutes, rustling disturbed the nearby brush. A string of curses followed. Eegit chuckled, and Jastyn, tossing a tiny leg bone into the fire, leaned back.
“You didn’t have to come, Coran.”
Another stifled curse, followed by stumbling steps. Eventually, Coran fell into the clearing over Jastyn’s left shoulder. Thorns stuck to his tunic, and mud coated the bottom of his boots. He ran a hand through his curls—looking more orange under the setting sun—to rid himself of fallen leaves. His light eyes were wide when he said, “How did you know it was me?”
Jastyn exchanged an amused glance with Eegit, who spoke between open-mouthed chews. “You walk like a baby bear in a crowded village market.”
Coran swallowed, then cleared his throat, continuing to brush off his pants with a pleading look at Jastyn, who shrugged.
“What’re you doin’ out here so late?” Jastyn asked, nodding for Coran to take a seat. With a wry smile at Eegit, he took a knee.
Settled onto the grass, he spoke in a low voice. “I went by your house yesterday. Your mom said you had left to fetch somethin’ for Alanna.”
His face was lit with curiosity, but Jastyn wasn’t ready to divulge everything from the previous night. Instead, she asked him, “How is my family? How’s Alanna?”
“Worried, of course,” he said, eyeing Eegit, who crunched loudly into a skull. Coran paled at the noise. “I figured if you were headin’ back after whatever it was you had to do, you might have come here first.”
Jastyn tossed the remains of her dinner into the fire. “I didn’t find what I was hoping for,” she said after a minute. Then she fetched her satchel and sat back down. Pulling out the vial, she added, “But I did get this.”
Coran reached out to touch the glass. The green smoke stirred at his touch.
From across the fire, Eegit nodded, seemingly impressed. “Banshee blood, is it? The Red One was generous with you, child.”
Both Jastyn and Coran turned to her. “This,” Jastyn said, “is banshee blood?”
“Naturally,” Eegit replied matter-of-factly. “Banshee aren’t corporeal fae. What’d you expect their blood to look like?”
Exchanging looks with Jastyn, Coran mumbled, “Guess I never really thought about it before.”
Jastyn tucked the vial away as Eegit licked her fingers clean. “You’ve got to find the second half of your trade, haven’t you?”
“How did you…” Jastyn started, then held up a hand. “Never mind. I should have known.”
Coran asked, “What’s she mean?”
Reluctantly, Jastyn explained. “This vial of, apparently, banshee blood will help Alanna. But only temporarily. The Red One told me to go west, to the caves, to find the true cure.” She bit her lip, hesitant to add that the fae had also mentioned a sacrifice was part of obtaining this mysterious cure.
“How long will the banshee blood last?”
“A couple of moons, I’d wager,” Eegit called from near her hut. She rummaged through several wooden bowls, then wandered over to drop an acorn into the flames.
Jastyn stared into the firelight. Coran reached out, placing a speckled hand on her knee.
“Come back to the village with me, Jas.”
Jastyn pulled her legs to her chest, resting her elbows on her knees. She stared at her fingers. “I’m not sure I’m ready to go back.”
She could feel Coran’s unspoken words. He didn’t need to tell her that he believed in her, or that he would be there for her in whatever came next. She could feel it in his hand on her knee and see it in his lopsided smile. She could see the years of his looking out for her, taking care of her when she forgot to take care of herself.
A lump rose in her throat. As she opened her mouth to reply, Coran added, “At least come by and let Mum serve you some eggs.” He poked at her ribs. “You’re lookin’ mighty peckish, even after that squirrel.”
Jastyn swatted his hand away. “I’d rather my mom’s stew.”
“Both then. And”—he sniffed, leaning forward—“a bath wouldn’t hurt you none either.”
At this, Eegit guffawed, surprising both Jastyn and Coran. Wide-eyed, they gawked at her cackling laughter. Eegit threw her head back. “First funny thing you’ve spoken in years!”
After a second, Jastyn joined in her laughter. For a fleeting moment, she felt lighter. Meanwhile, Coran’s neck flushed. “Suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”
When Eegit, still snickering, walked back to her hut, Jastyn wiped her eyes, her laughter subsiding. “Very well. I’ll head back at first light.” She stretched and yawned, her full stomach prompting a sense of ease and renewed sleepiness. She patted the grass beside her. “C’mon and stay tonight, Coran. Eegit can roast something for you.”
“I’ll pass on dinner,” he said before sitting cross-legged beside Jastyn, who lay down with one hand tucked behind her head. “There’s one more thing,” he said, leaning down to speak low. “I bear news from the castle.”
Jastyn’s eyes, which had closed briefly in contentment, flew open. The memories from last night, which had drifted to the edge of her mind where dreams lived, rushed back swiftly. She heard the agonized cries from the guardsmen, she saw the slicing of arrows across the night sky, and she watched once more the terror on the face of the general.
Slowly, she asked, “What news has come?”
Coran’s face was solemn when he spoke. “Prince Diarmaid is dead.”
* * *
The dining hall was transformed: long, black curtains hung from every window, shielding the castle’s inhabitants from the outside world. Servants and members of the royal court treaded with muffled steps to and from the dark room; those who had not yet paid their respects did so now. Fires burned in their hearths, creating the only light apart from dozens of candles lining the long table, itself now dressed in mourning with a black linen cloth cascading down each of its sides. Groups of three or four, everyone dressed in solemn gray or deep blue, wa
lked with bent heads toward the center of the room and knelt along the table’s edges. They spoke in hushed prayer or left a white lily or a plate of berries among the plethora of offerings.
Each person who came to bid farewell was careful to nod their condolences to Princess Aurelia, who had remained now for two days at the head of the table, clad in a midnight-blue cloak over a black tunic, her eyes red from crying and little sleep thanks to the constant vigil she kept over her fallen brother.
One member of the court—a woman Aurelia recognized as a friend of her mother’s—whimpered into shaking hands as she knelt a few feet away in front of the fresh leather boots on Brennus’s feet. The woman’s husband stood behind her. Aurelia knew him as a member of the same guard party who returned that fateful night. After running a hand over his thick auburn beard, the man caught her gaze.
“The prince died an honorable death worthy of a fine warrior,” he said in a raspy voice.
When Aurelia only stared back at him, he nodded curtly, wiped his eyes, then left the dining hall, guiding his wife out by her elbow.
Aurelia, who had insisted on being the first to oversee the wake, was exhausted. But not from the lack of sleep. Rather, she felt ragged from the kingdom’s endless stream of words for her brother. Nearly every single soldier, chambermaid, or lady of the court had explained to her that Brennus’s death had been “honorable,” “valiant,” or even “of the highest degree of valor.”
She shrugged at their well-meaning but ultimately misguided sentiments. Her eyes fell once more to her brother. Even now, it was hard to comprehend the stillness of his face, the unmoving hair, and the stiff hands clutching his sword over his chest. For the hundredth time, her eyes traced the edges of his white tunic and pants, trimmed in elegant black on the cuffs and collar. With such an image as this, Aurelia could not bring herself to seek solace in any of the words that she had heard. What did they know, after all? What pride was there in such a death as this one? Her brother had wanted nothing except to see the world. What had he received in return for that wanting but a premature handshake with Death?
