by M. A. Grant
“Not much time left for that,” I say.
She wrinkles her nose and nods. “Aye. That’s a concern I’ve heard frequently, especially as the pantheons still refuse to trade with us.” She takes another bite, then sets down the bread, inspecting her fingers for stray jam. “We’ll manage without anyone’s help though. We always have.”
“Is that why you came here?” Lugh asks suddenly. “Checking this village is ready for winter?”
“And to deal with the kraken,” she says. “It may take longer to solve our trade problems, but a monster...that’s a problem I can fix immediately. Well, was a problem I could fix immediately, except your lot beat me to it. Another triumph for the Horned King, eh?”
She rises slowly from her seat and gives us all one final, warm smile. “While I’ve enjoyed seeing you all again, I’m afraid my work here is yet unfinished.” She chucks me under the chin and reminds me, “When you’re on your way back from Eyjar and long for a comfortable place to rest your weary heads...”
“We’ll visit soon,” I promise.
She glances at Lugh. “Hold him to that, if you will, seidhr. It’s about time he caught us up on your newest exploits.”
Lugh tilts his head. “I will, Voll. The best to your people.”
“And safe travels to you.”
She leaves us and from outside the hall we can hear the rise and fall of voices. More of the villagers must be waking up, judging from the mixture of tones. Armel inspects the map with a wrinkled brow. “Perhaps we should swing south to Resnik’s lands?” he asks the table at large.
“They’re out of our way,” Cybel points out.
“Friendly though,” Drest says. “You know he’d offer us a warm welcome. The seidhr’s presence would be considered a blessing by his people.”
“A last resort then,” Lugh suggests, “if our supplies are running low.” He flicks a glance to me and tension brackets the corners of his mouth and eyes. “The sooner we reach Eyjar, the better.”
“Good then,” Drest announces. He stands and stretches. “We’d best be on our way. Traveling through unfriendly lands after snow falls is a foolish decision, even for us. Better to beat winter’s arrival, even if it means harder riding.”
“Agreed,” Cybel says.
Lugh taps his finger against the tabletop, still staring at the map with unfocused eyes. I reach out and rest my hand over his, stilling the motion. His fingers press against the wood, but he allows my touch.
“We’ll need to be careful,” he says.
“Yes.”
No further words pass between us. None are needed. I make a final butter and jam sandwich to take with me and we abandon the hall to collect our horses. Voll and her attendants have already begun their work of stopping by each house, but they wave to us when they see us preparing to leave. We leave our tribute with one of the elders, and then we’re riding out of the sleepy village and into the woods.
Lugh
We fall to the ground, crushing fallen leaves and sending their sweet scents drifting up into the air. He kisses me with single-minded focus—Who? Why can’t I see his face?—and I sigh when his hands slide down my body, running up and down the smooth fabric of my best dress. I’m glad he caught me today, on my way home from the Unseelie sídhe where I acted as the host in the Rite Hibernum. Perhaps it’s the tiny shred of King Oberon’s power still nestled inside me, perhaps it’s the bite of autumn in the air, the promise that winter will arrive soon and leave me no reason to wander from the Seelie sídhe anymore, but I kiss him back and imagine what would happen if I asked him to stay with me. I have my pride. I won’t ask him that. Instead, I close my eyes and revel in the sensation of his lips on mine.
“You have my heart,” I whisper when he finally draws away. I can’t bear to look at him, see his distaste. He told me he’d never been in love. Like a fool, I fell anyway.
“Do I?” he asks. “You would give me that?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” he whispers. “I need it so much.”
A brilliant pain flashes through my chest and I scream when he pins my shoulder and works his knife in deeper—
* * *
I jolt awake from my nap. No blood weeps underhand when I clutch my chest. Nevertheless, the shade’s fatal injury seems etched in my skin. The dream—the memory—lingers and I shake my head, trying to dislodge it. How dare she? How dare she sneak into my head like that? For fuck’s sake, it’s the middle of the day.
The lochan we’ve stopped to lunch at is a mirror. The autumnal colors of the trees reflect in the dark waters, shimmering like wildfire when the light breeze blows. The horses browse happily and their hooves scuff over the ground, leaving whispers from fallen leaves in their wake. Cybel, Armel, and Drest are gathered along the shore. Armel tries his hand at fishing, and the other two have decided the best use of their time is to correct his technique and form. Their good-natured bickering is comforting. It almost helps me forget the flitting movements in the edges of my vision.
I had hoped escaping the sídhe before Samhain would grant me some peace from the restless spirits waiting to cross through the veil into Tir na nÓg. The hushed voices and ghostly touches I felt there shouldn’t have followed me into the Wylds. In the Wylds there are no victims to remind me of Mother’s vicious methods to consolidate her power, nor to blame me for complicity due to the blood running through my veins. At least, there didn’t used to be so many shades here. Now I can’t ride for more than a day before we run into more. I’m not sure if they’ve always been here, only clear to me now that the rebalancing of the Triumvirate has granted me more power, or whether they’re the sign of a greater problem. Regardless of the reason, the shades haunt my steps with greater and greater frequency.
The past two days, a swirling flock of five have dogged our trail. When I ignore them during the day, they try to force their way into my dreams at night. Avoiding sleep is the easiest option now, though I have to deal with Keiran’s increasing worry. I’m not sure how much longer I can pretend. They’re growing bolder.
I grit my teeth when a cool finger brushes over the back of my neck. She’s back. The strongest of the group dances around me. Her dress’s ragged hem drags against the ground and her skin flakes from her bones as she moves. It’s impossible to ignore her completely, not when her constant movement draws the eye, but I can at least refuse to look up from our map. My feigned ignorance isn’t a deterrent. Incorporeal lips whisper an unending plea into my ear, one not limited by the need for breath or thought.
He lay me down on a bed of harebell and kissed me till I sighed. And then he sliced into my heart and bled me till I died.
She sings the words to me again, gentler this time, as if she could coax me into looking at her through the invitation of her sweet voice alone. The foggy edges of her memory brush against my glamour, urge me to pause and inspect the moment she gave me while I was sleeping.
No. Don’t engage.
I glare at the map, finger tracing our circuitous route. I’ve overheard Keiran and the others wondering why we haven’t headed straight for Aage’s hall. The Sluagh thegn doesn’t stand on ceremony and we all have an open invitation to visit whenever we’d like. My riders trust my methods, but the constant delays and our unpredictable movements back and forth over the land are unusual, even for me. The sheer number of shades we keep running into rewrites my course over and over, though I haven’t figured out a way to explain that to them.
A change of tone in the murmurs from the pond makes me look up, despite the risk of the shade. Keiran’s emerged from the woods, arms full of firewood, and is chatting with the others. The dappled sunlight falls over the dark blue tunic stretched over his back and shoulders. He shifts from side to side where he stands and the movement makes his calves flex. He’s the perfect torture: the man I want most is the same man I can never have.
A single night nearly cost me our friendship. Mother had finally granted me permission to join the Unseelie cavalry for military training, a battle I’d been waging against her with little success. High on my triumph before the Court and with only one night left in the sídhe before I left, I snuck into Keiran’s chambers, undressed, and waited for him to return from an unexpected audience with Mother. I was young and impetuous and slightly tipsy and thought I was irresistible. The door swung open, Keiran stepped inside, and he paused for a moment to look at me. Finally, after so long chasing after him, tugging on his cloak and begging for his attention, it was surely my moment. The hope was dashed when he sighed, closed the door, and came to the side of the bed only long enough to cover me with a blanket.
“No, Lugh,” he said, voice rough, and went to stand by the fire. Embarrassed, I dragged on my clothes. When I pressed him to explain why we couldn’t, his entire body went still. Even through my inebriation, I saw that and realized in an awful flash how far I’d leapt over the line of our friendship. I’d forgotten our positions—despite my dissatisfaction at living in the sídhe, it was home and my place there was secure. Keiran couldn’t say the same. I’d been so caught up in my own hopeful chase I didn’t stop to think whether Keiran shared my feelings.
I stepped back, hands raised. “I’m an ass.”
“You’re not—”
“Yes, I am.”
We stood there, watching each other until the fire was nearly burned out. Only then, after the shadows helped hide the burning of my cheeks did I gather the courage to mumble, “You’re my only friend. I never want to hurt you or make you doubt your place here.” He opened his mouth to protest, but I shook my head. “Never.”
For once, it was enough. I was enough, and he didn’t question my sincerity again. I intend to keep it that way.
So I file this image away where all my other longing memories of him stay, and return my focus to the task at hand. I need to find a good place for us to resupply, and I hate the idea of backtracking yet again. I’ve narrowed the options down when a shadow falls over the map. Keiran, divested of firewood, leans over my shoulder to inspect my progress, and hums low in his throat. Somewhere in the shadow of the trees, the shade croons her song to me again.
“Lugh? Are you feeling okay? You’re flushed.”
Damn. I clench a hand at my side and dig my fingernails into my palm to ground myself. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? I didn’t know you wanted to stop in a town.”
I don’t. The farther we’ve gone into the Mainland, the more proof we’ve seen of Voll’s rumors. The land offers little for us to scavenge or gather and the hunting is scarce. Strangers are viewed with increasing suspicion and I doubt we’ll find much welcome wherever we stop. “Only for a few hours,” I say. He frowns, so I add, “To resupply and prepare for the next leg. You don’t think it’s a good idea?”
“It may not be comfortable, but I was going to suggest we spend the night. Next leg of the journey will take us through some rough areas and we’d do well to go into them well rested.” He drags a finger over the markings on the waxed parchment and taps at a small village. “So for tonight, how about here? Fair prices and decent food, if memory serves.” He must expect me to argue, because he says, “We’ll share a room. It’d be safer.”
He says it like sharing a room isn’t our normal routine already.
“Fine. But if you snore, I’m kicking you out to the hall.” I eye the distance between us and the village. “If we hurry, we could get there by nightfall.”
“I’ll rally our fishermen.”
“They’re terrible at it,” I call to his back. He laughs and waves a hand in agreement. Meanwhile, the men heard my comment and all give me rude gestures. The fishing tackle is already packed by the time Keiran reaches them. I focus on rolling up the map and putting it safely away.
The shade hovers behind me. Keiran and the others seem distracted so I take the risk, hoping it will appease her.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry this happened to you. But there’s nothing I can do.”
She groans out her song, sorrow echoing in every word, but she doesn’t reach for me again. None of the other shades do. We depart, five men and their horses, with nothing chasing after us for the first time in days.
We reach the village outskirts as the sun begins to creep behind the horizon. It casts long shadows over the patchwork of carefully tilled fields. Most are being readied for the first snows. Those closer to town are still being used, though the plants remaining are withered and sickly. Their fences aren’t repaired, and we catch sight of a few Sluagh working the soil with little success. One of them rises and moves to the fence as we approach. She keeps a hand in her basket and her wary gaze never leaves us, even after she sees my glamoured helm.
“You’re still around, are you, seidhr?” she asks as we draw to halt. “I thought the wars were over.”
Not the warm welcome I’d hoped for. Granted, the suspicious glances from the other Sluagh don’t fill me with confidence that anyone else would have greeted us more kindly.
“Good evening,” I reply, drawing Liath to a halt. “What may we call you?”
“Atla.” She shifts the basket a bit. This close, I can see the glint of a blade underneath the layer of herbs in her basket.
I raise a hand. “We mean no harm.”
“Aye,” she agrees. “You said that the last time you visited. I stayed up half the night listening to that one’s stories.” She tilts her head toward Keiran, who looks surprised to be remembered. “He’s aged well, hasn’t he?”
“I like to think so.” It slips out before I can stop myself and I wince, praying I don’t sound like a love-struck idiot.
She laughs, but there isn’t much humor in it. “I’m surprised you look so well. I thought such a harbinger would reflect the state of the lands he wanders. What do you want?”
Thank the Goddess Armel steps forward to speak. Everything about me seems to set Atla on edge.
“Please,” Armel says with a charming smile. “Is there room in the hall?”
“There might be,” she says slowly.
“Would your elders allow us to offer tribute in exchange for such hospitality?” Cybel asks.
Atla’s eyes light up and she wets her lips, holding herself tighter to contain her eagerness. “I suppose they might. What hospitality would you be expecting?”
“Supper, if it wouldn’t be a burden,” Keiran says. “And two rooms for tonight alone. We’re used to cramped quarters.”
She looks back at me. Her gaze is cool when she asks, “Your poet stayed with you last time. Will it be the same arrangement?”
“How do you remember that?” Keiran asks, too surprised to censor himself. “The last time we passed through here was—”
“A little over a century ago,” the woman finishes for him. “I know. I was a girl then. You lot tend to make an impression, especially to those who wish to avoid war. Now, if you’ll follow me, I can walk you there.”
“Thank you,” I blurt out. She nods and turns to leave, so I have to say the rest quickly. “For helping us now. And for remembering us from back then.”
Her steps slow and the basket lowers. “It’s hard to forget the Horned King and his Wild Hunt,” she says. “Harder when the stories woven about you were repeated night after night, until they became our own. To think, the seidhr has returned to us after all this time.” She glances over her shoulder toward Keiran, the first sign of slight interest she’s shown at all. “I would guess you’ve gathered more tales in your absence, poet?”
He nods. “I have a few.”
“Well then, you’d better come along so you can tell them tonight.”
As she sets off down the road, I nudge Keiran’s shoulder with mine and whisper, “Glad she likes one of us.”
He rolls his eyes
and nudges me back. “For my stories, seidhr. That’s all.”
I doubt it. Keiran has always stood out from us. His kindness, his humanity itself, makes him the heart of our Hunt. Those listening to stories about us may remember the plots, but more than anything, they remember the man reciting them. Keiran’s the reason fae like Atla remember us at all.
We follow her down the dirty road, past worn cottages. The livestock and poultry we can see are well cared for, but too few in number for a settlement of this size. The mead hall stands in the center of the village, with a few rundown shops surrounding it. The shops are closed, so resupplying will have to wait until morning. At least Keiran will get his way. We dismount from the horses with a chorus of soft groans and complaints. Drest, stretching in contorted poses to ease the pain in his hips, hands his reins over to Armel. He’ll find the stables and hopefully we can get the grooming finished before any chance for supper has passed.
It’s a surprise when two young girls come out of the mead hall and hold out their hands. Atla rests a hand on the oldest’s shoulder. “My daughters,” she explains. “They’re avid riders and can remove your tack faster than most.”
“Then their help is very welcome,” Cybel states and hands over his reins to the younger girl. She accepts it with a gap-toothed smile and reaches shyly for Armel’s. He hands it off, but not before he performs a trick that makes a coin appear near her ear. He hands it to her, and another to her sister, who takes the other three horses. Together, the girls lead them off into the rapidly darkening shadows. We follow Atla inside, where light and warmth and the delicious scent of roasting meat awaits us.
Almost the entire village appears to be here, yet the hall remains spacious. The haze of smoke from the cooking fires hangs in the peak of the ceiling, slowly drifting out through the openings. Benches and tables stand on the outer edges, separate from the central space by the hewn pillars holding up the roof. Several people greet Atla as she walks toward the main fire. They give us wary glances as we pass, but no one rises or makes any disparaging remarks. We may not be completely welcome here, but at least we aren’t actively opposed.
