Catching Pathways

by Danielle Berggren

  Any changeling that he met broke through the enchantment by their thirtieth year. She lay past that, but might there be something else stopping her from awakening? Sometimes, the enchantment lain on a changeling shattered because of a bonding.

  If he bonded with her, the process would tear the enchantment asunder and let the reality of who she was spill out into the world.

  He might not be one hundred percent certain until then, but certain enough he wanted to try. Wanted it more than he should. He waited two thousand years for the perfect partner. Was she the one, or was he fooling himself?

  “There you go again,” she said in a quiet voice. “You’re thinking deep thoughts, aren’t you? About Sebastian?”

  Rodan shook his head. “No. It is nothing.” He stared at her for a moment, and held his hand out. “Come here.”

  She placed her hand in his, the response immediate. He closed his fingers over hers and pulled her to the bed, shifting his clothes as he did so into the sleep shirt and pants he often wore to rest in. He slid onto the mattress and tugged her toward him, and soon she crawled over him, the honeysuckle beeswax scent of her flooding his senses.

  “Tell me if we’re doing anything you do not wish for,” he said. “Stop this if it gets too much. Promise me.”

  Mute, she nodded, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders and her legs on either side of his hips. She sat astride him, the fabric of her shorts riding up to expose her long legs. He ran his hands up her thighs, shifting his gloves to linen so less lay between the two of them.

  “You have had other lovers,” he said. “As have I. It will never change what is here, between us.”

  She tilted her head a little and stayed silent.

  He licked his lips and pressed his forehead to hers, their noses almost touching. “I care about you. Deeply. I only wish for your happiness. I hope you are finding some measure of it with me.”

  Maeve’s breath hitched, and her next words were on a breath, “I am.”

  He raised his hands so they wrapped around her waist. She was so right, so perfect that, for a moment, he became baffled by the sensation. He only marveled. Marveled, and counted the millions of reasons why he did not deserve this. “I want to kiss you,” he said. “May I?”

  Her lips parted, and her fingers curled into fists in his shirt. “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, please, yes.”

  With the last yes dying on her lips, he kissed her. A soft, feather-light touch at first, but her mouth grew hungry beneath his, and he held back no longer. He pulled her lower lip into his mouth, biting down a little and swallowing her gasp, his tongue drinking up every little noise that escaped her. She pulled on him, her nails digging into the flesh of his shoulder as she slipped the shirt from him and pressed him on the bed, her fingers trailing over his skin and so hot the burn of them might have marked his skin.

  He buried his hands in her hair and gods—Gods! —he wished himself free of the damned gloves. Free to touch her, to caress her in the way she deserved. He stroked her cheek and the curve of her jaw as it swooped beneath her ear. He broke their kiss and moved his lips along that same line, following her jaw to her throat, where her little moans vibrated beneath his lips.

  Maeve pressed herself harder against him, and the hard peaks of her nipples through her shirt rubbed against him. He brushed his hands along the sides of her breasts, trembling as she trembled, his body an echo chamber for hers.

  She broke their kiss and sat up, her hands pressed to his bare stomach as she looked down, her eyes flashing, and her cheeks flushed. Her hair, tousled and wild, fell past her shoulders in thick waves the color of dawn light on a darkened forest.

  His hands rode her hips, and she moved a little, grinding her body on his, her mouth opening as she did so. Rodan tightened his grip a little, his body bowing beneath hers.

  Then she went still.

  The change in her, the little tremor before the chilling calm, made him freeze. Her hands on his stomach clenched and relaxed, and her eyes lost their focus.

  He did not dare to move, not even to remove his hands from her. He stared up at her and waited. Waited for her to come back to him.

  She blinked, and awareness flooded back into her eyes, which soon brimmed with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

  He shook his head but moved no more. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry for.”

  She half-collapsed on him, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders as her head found his chest, hot tears peppering his skin. She reached down and grasped one of his hands, bringing it up to encircle her waist. He took the hint and moved his other hand to do the same, holding her to him while she cried, silent but for some sniffles and the odd, shuddering gasp.

  He rubbed circles on her back and began to hum a song popular at court when he lived there long ago. She went quiet against him as he began to sing, his voice soft and, even though he was out of practice, good. The words came to him, as he remembered the court musicians sitting on their cushioned pillows, strumming silver instruments. He did not remember the entire ballad, but some of it he tucked away.

  She went to sea,

  And took him away,

  A part of the song,

  No one can sing,

  And through it all,

  She held him aloft,

  A light in the dark,

  To anchor them home

  She hiccupped and raised her head as he finished, her hair sliding across his bare chest, like wisps of clouds against his skin. “I didn’t know you sang.”

  “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Mostly to myself, when I’m alone.”

  She smiled, and though it was tentative it was glorious to behold. “You should do it more often. You have a good voice.” She stretched a little and rolled off him, but clung to his side, her head burrowed against his chest. “I wish I could sing.”

  All Fae can sing. “You already possess a beautiful voice,” he said. “I’m sure you would sound incredible.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll just stick to belting it out in the shower, thank you.”

  They fell into a deep silence, and he noticed his body grow heavy as the weight of the day pressed down on him. She, too, began to still—her breathing growing deep and long. She moaned a little and pressed further into him, her body trembling. “I want to be with you,” she whispered. “I do. I promise.”

  “I know,” he said, not opening his eyes but cupping her elbow in one hand and reaching over to stroke her cheek with the other. “We have all the time in the world.”

  He felt her smile, but she said nothing more. As they lay there, sleep overtaking them by degrees, real contentment crept over him for the first time in his long life. There were things to do, creatures to find and subdue, crowns to win.

  Yet, all that mattered in that moment was the scent of honeysuckle and beeswax, and the soft flutter of her breath against his skin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Maeve

  MAEVE AWOKE WITH RODAN CURVED AROUND HER, as though he might shield her from something while they slept. One of his arms lay across her stomach and the other flung upward. His hair, everywhere, was soft and smooth, and the scent of sandalwood and smoke was strong as she took a deep breath. There was a murmur of voices nearby, soft but undeniable. She lifted her head, looking around the pavilion. Nothing seemed amiss.

  Still, the voices seemed close. Almost too close, as though someone whispered secrets only feet from her.

  She sat up, Rodan’s arm falling away, and looked around her, eyes wide. The whispers and murmurs grew louder, but she still could not make out a word said. Rodan stirred and his hand fell to her thigh. “What is it?” he asked, his voice deep and drowsy with sleep.

  The voices rose once again, but dozens of new throats joined the first ones. “Do you hear that?” Maeve asked, looking back at him. The hair on the back of her neck rose, as though she just turned her back on a threat. Like a tiger paced the room.

  His brow furro
wed, and he sat up, the edges of sleep sliding off his face as a sword materialized in his hand. He looked around, sliding off the bed as he did so, his stance rigid and cautious.

  Something touched her ankle, and she yelped, jumping to the middle of the bed. “Rodan, the lights!” The lanterns blazed with whatever power Rodan poured into them, and the whispering stopped like someone threw a switch. Maeve clutched at the shirt over her heart, breathing hard. “That was them,” she said. “It had to be.”

  Rodan nodded and the sword left his hand. “I sensed something—something malevolent.”

  She looked at him, then reached across the bed to touch his arm. Her hand slid down until she clasped his hand. “Do you think they know we’re coming for them?”

  He nodded. “They come after children, from all we’ve heard. The only reason they might come here is because they foresee a threat.”

  She moved to the edge of the bed and rose up on her knees, coming level with his gaze, her hand still clutched in his. “I felt something touch my ankle.”

  He frowned and bent down, inspecting both of her ankles, his fingers warm even through the linen gloves he wore. For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to slip them off, for him to touch her flesh to flesh just like they did in the dream walking. She shook her head to dispel the thoughts, just as he finished his inspection. “There is no mark,” he said, “Not physically, not beneath the surface. There may be something I’m missing, but healing was never my strong suit.”

  She tilted her head. “You healed me plenty.”

  He smiled at her and his head ducked down, as though he would kiss her. She leaned a little into him, but he stopped before his lips were at hers, his breath coiling out to caress her aching skin. “You’ve never seen the healers at court,” he murmured. “They make me look like a bumbling fool. Their magic is tied to healing, as mine is tied to transformation and battle magic.”

  His dual-colored eyes bore into her, the depths of the green one lost to a tide of blue and yellow. It made her dizzy. She took her hand from his face and heat crept into her cheeks.

  Her breath left her in a sigh, and she leaned over, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his silken hair. Smoke and sandalwood enveloped her. His arms came to circle her, and he mirrored her posture, so they leaned on one another, perfectly balanced.

  A throat cleared.

  Maeve broke away, looking toward the sound. There was an outline of a body outside the opening to their tent, and old familiarity tugged at her. “Pike?”

  “May I come in?” he called through their closed tent flap.

  She glanced at Rodan. At his nod, she called out, “Yes. Come in.”

  Pike walked in like he owned the place, only giving it a cursory glance. His single eye lingered a little on the bed—on Maeve, who still knelt there—but he made no comment. “The shadows came to visit me. I wanted to check in on you two.”

  Rodan crossed his arms over his chest. “Here, too. Did you get a good look at any of them?”

  Pike shook his head, his gray hair falling to shadow his forehead. “They fled when I lit the lamps. Thank you for those, by the by. And the food.” He patted his stomach. “I don’t think I’ve eaten that well in months. Maybe years.”

  Rodan gave him a shallow nod.

  Maeve slid off the bed and stood near to Rodan for a moment, basking in the warmth of him against her skin. Then she went to Pike, giving him a brief hug before sinking down on one of the floor cushions near the low wooden table. “Rodan? Do you have a map of the area?”

  “I can make one,” he said, sinking down next to her and spreading his hand along the table. She noted it grew a little thinner, but where his hand passed a great roll of parchment appeared. Ink spread over the page as though several invisible hands painted on it at the same time. “Will this do?”

  “That’s incredible,” Pike muttered, coming around to the other side of the table and taking a seat. “How do you do that?”

  “Transmutation. Memory. A little luck,” Rodan said. “It may not be a hundred percent accurate, but it is what I remember from before I was deposed. The region might have changed some since then.”

  Maeve traced her fingers over the map. “Are these the cliffs?” she asked, touching a section where lines were drawn close together, forming what looked like a mountainous peak.

  He nodded. “And the river,” he said as he moved his gloved hand along the winding line. “The headwaters are farther to the north, where the grass dies off and it becomes tundra.” He motioned to the top of the map, where the drawing stopped.

  Maeve studied it, frowning. “I feel like there’s something... missing.”

  Pike leaned forward. “You don’t show Karst.”

  Rodan shook his head. “When it moves, why would I?”

  “Could you show where it is now?” Maeve asked.

  Rodan tapped the paper and an explosion of little boxes marking the tents and pavilions of the city sprang up under his touch.

  Karst, currently nestled between the river and the cliffs. The position allowed it access to the plains on two sides but natural protection on the other two. She looked up at Pike. “How long has it been here?”

  He shrugged. “Almost a year, I think. They didn’t want to move, with all that’s been happening. Too risky to the children.”

  “How have they followed the game, then?” Rodan asked.

  “They send out parties. They’re gone for weeks at a time, sometimes, but they travel fast, hunt well, and come back with enough food to keep us going. They fish the river now, more often than they did in the past, and the farms still provide their grains.” Pike shook his head. “The people are restless. They’re not used to staying in one place for so long.”

  “Perhaps they shouldn’t have stayed to begin with,” Maeve murmured. The two men looked at her and her face warmed. “When we were making our way here,” she explained, “we passed by the cliffs and outcroppings. It’s limestone, isn’t it? It is a kind of rock common in the middle of my country. Those parts of my world are full of caves. They’re everywhere. They crisscross under the ground and into the cliffs. They’d be the perfect spot for a night-loving creature to hide out in. Perhaps Karst is too close to the cliffs and the caves they might contain.”

  “Aye,” Pike agreed. “There are caves.”

  Rodan nodded. “I can feel them under us. I could feel them when I was creating the tents.”

  Pike shot him a curious look. “What do you mean, when you’re creating the tents?”

  “My gift allows me to transform the matter and energy stored in one place and make it into something completely different. It has to be an equivalent exchange, however, and so I’m able to suss out the weight of the world around me. So I can take what is and create what isn’t.” Rodan tilted his head. “That’s the basic principle behind it, at least.”

  Her friend leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So these caves, you both think this is where the shadows hide out during the daylight hours?”

  They nodded, and Maeve pressed on, “It makes the most sense, doesn’t it? You say the shadows leave no signs, that they’re impossible to track. Maybe it’s because they’re not really going anywhere. Maybe there are areas in the city where there is enough of a hole in the ground for them to flit in and out of.” She frowned. “They don’t seem to have much in the way of substance, but they can affect us. I felt one touch my ankle.”

  Pike shook his head and shuddered. “Foul creatures.”

  Rodan nodded. “What could have caused this, I wonder? If they always lived in the caves, this would not have been the first time the region was under threat.” He paused, tapping his chin with his forefinger. “There is something a little too familiar about these creatures. Something I’m missing.”

  “Must be hard,” Maeve said, nudging him, “having two thousand years’ worth of memories to sift through.”

  “Two thousand?” Pike sputtered, hands falling
as he leaned forward over the table. “You are two thousand years old?”

  Rodan nodded, his eyes closed. “Yes. Now be quiet, please, I’m trying to think.”

  Maeve rose and gestured for Pike to follow her. They stepped outside of the pavilion to the late afternoon light. She walked with him to his tent and the little bench before it. “Best to leave him to it,” she said, flashing her friend a smile. “It may be awhile before Rodan figures out what he’s forgotten.”

  “Two thousand years,” Pike mused, hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. “That means he’s the original King Rodan, doesn’t it?”

  Maeve nodded. “It does.”

  He shook his head. “That’s incredible. How—how did we ever defeat him?”

  She shrugged. “In that long a time, everyone makes mistakes. He underestimated Sebastian and the rest of us.” She paused a moment before continuing. “And Sebastian used some dirty tricks.”

  Pike’s eyebrows rose, and he took the seat next to her, stretching out his legs. “What do you mean, he used dirty tricks?”

  She shifted a little, discomfort rising as she recalled what she had been asked to do in the weeks and months leading up to the final duel. “Spell work, mainly,” she admitted, her tone soft and not carrying. “Binding rituals against him, and potions which helped give Sebastian an edge. To be stronger. Faster.”

  She frowned, remembering how Sebastian told her that her spell and potion work was nothing special, that anyone might do it. Most people did.

  What if that was a lie?

  “Have you ever worked a spell, Pike?”

  His brows came together, forming a crease over his nose. “A spell? No, lass. You know where my talents lie.”

  She took a deep, shaking breath and pressed on, “How about Troy? Did they ever do anything with a spell—like something to make their arrows fly straighter, or shoot further?”