He swallowed hard. “By Afallon, the Ilidreth are so cruel!”
“Not without reason,” Lawen said with a sigh. “We’ve stripped them of their pride and forced them deeper into the woods as we’ve cut down their forest. We’ve been cruel to them, far more so than they to us.”
“But the Ilidreth are a savage race. Had we not driven them back, they would have killed every last one of us.”
Lawen shook his head. “Would they, Gwyn? Or does the Crow King merely tell us so?”
Gwyn startled. He had never heard his brother speak of the king with anything other than the deepest respect. “Don’t say such things. If the king—”
“If the king weren’t so blind, perhaps we would live in harmony with the Ilidreth. Perhaps our lands wouldn’t be so impoverished. Perhaps the sun would be just a bit warmer, a bit brighter, because those who live under it would do so without the eye of a tyrant bearing down on us.”
Gwyn shuddered. “You mustn’t—”
Lawen jerked his hand free and gripped Gwyn’s shoulder with brittle fingers. “Listen to me, Gwynter. It seems a bittersweet gift is born in a dying man to see what he couldn’t before. But perhaps my newborn sight will aid others where it avails me naught. The Crow King is not the great man we thought.”
“Lawen, you’re ill. You’re not thinking right.”
Lawen’s hand fell to the bed. He dragged in a rattling breath. “I served him...Served him with high honor...Drove Ilidreth to their deaths, and—and did so many other horrible things. Things...I would undo if I possibly could. The Crow King is mad, Gwyn. Mad.”
Gwyn’s throat constricted. He fought to swallow and took Lawen’s hand. “Hush, brother. You mustn’t speak like this. ‘Tis treason.”
“What can the Crow King do to me now? I am dying.”
Gwyn bit his lip. A crow beyond the curtained window gave a sharp caw; wings beat hard against the air as it flew off, perhaps to the nearby wood. Gwyn let his mind’s eye imagine the tall, ancient trees of that wood where the Ilidreth dwelt. Father thought they had the cure.
He turned back to Lawen, but his brother had grown still, breaths deeper, though still so weak.
“You cannot die, dear brother. I won’t let you die.”
Perhaps Lawen’s reckless words against the Crow King were infectious. Gwyn felt nothing whatever about the king himself, but that defiant spirit filled his being like the low flicker of hot embers. Was it possible? Were the Ilidreth misunderstood — those strange, ethereal beings who dwelt in the wooded vales of the world?
Father must have thought so, and he’d perished for it.
But if there was a cure, dare Gwyn not risk it?
He rested Lawen’s hand on the coverlet, stroked his fingers once, and rose. Gwyn was only fourteen years of age. But he was tall and strong, accustomed to hunting and riding, and he knew a fair stretch of the woods and how to navigate untamed lands.
Mother would never let him go, especially to save the life of Father’s first wife’s son. But Gwyn loved his brother more than anyone in the world. If there was a whisper of hope, he must answer.
Time stretched out of mind as Gwyn stared out at the distant trees and weighed the risks. Should he leave Lawen now, so frail and faint, when he chanced never seeing him alive again? Or should he remain here to watch Lawen fade, helpless, hopeless?
Gwyn curled his fingers into fists.
He would leave at once, under the pretense of the morning’s chores. It would be hours before anyone missed him, and then Mother would search and discover a message explaining his departure. By then it would be too late to stop him. None of the servants, none of the serfs or slaves, would venture into the woods even for their master.
Gwyn left Lawen’s room and made for his own to pack and to scrawl a hasty note.
Chapter 2
Woodland chatter filled the trees as Gwyn guided Tia, his dappled mare, along the well-worn path. No Ilidreth would dwell so near cultivated lands; thus, humans used this stretch of the woods for lumber, trapping, hunting, foraging, or whatever else they could to secure a trade. Gwyn often came to hunt, or to learn the lay of moss or the turning of a leaf, as Father had taught him. Gwyn had wanted to be a guide when he was younger, but when Lawen joined the Crow King’s army, Gwyn decided to follow in his brother’s footsteps when he came of age. That would require many of the same skills he had spent his childhood honing.
It would be very handy now, when he left the path and entered less hospitable realms.
Gwyn had packed light, only carrying two extra sets of clothing to make more room for food and medicinal herbs, a hunting knife, bow and arrow, and a short sword. Tia bore her burden well, content to walk the old familiar path as she had countless times, oblivious of their objective.
It was midday before Gwyn eased Tia off the path and into the thick canopy of towering trees. Everything gleamed vibrant green after the night’s spring rain, and rich loam taunted Gwyn’s senses like a heady wine. Tia left prints in the soft soil for anyone to follow, but Gwyn knew they wouldn’t.
Another twenty minutes passed with nothing but a distant wind sighing against the branches and the prattle of scampering squirrels. Tia nickered and shifted her hooves, ears flicking.
“Easy, girl,” Gwyn said, running a hand along her neck. “Easy.” He searched the surrounding trees but saw nothing strange. He urged her on. She tossed her head but obeyed.
Minutes later she faltered again and backed up with a snort.
“Whoa, Tia. What is it?” He leaned forward to pat her neck and stiffened as movement caught his eye. There, right of his course. A flash of color slinked behind a tree.
Gwyn straightened in the saddle and reached down to finger his hunting knife, wishing he’d had the sense to unstrap his bow from his pack before he entered the deeper wood. A stray breeze rustled the leaves overhead and tugged against Gwyn’s ponytail. Something stirred behind the tree he studied, and he thought he smelled blood.
Movement came again. Red cloth. The fine cloth of an army tabard. There was no arm attached to that tabard, and it hung too high to belong to a man. Hair rose against the back of Gwyn’s neck as he understood. He dismounted, wrapped Tia’s reins around a branch of the nearest sapling, slid his hunting knife from the saddle scabbard, and crept toward the tabard.
He knew what to expect before he saw it. Rounding the tree, he lifted his gaze to find the empty red cloth pinned by arrows to the gnarled trunk.
Despite its color, Gwyn recognized the dark stains on its front for what they were: Blood. Lots of it, especially near the heart and neckline. Lowering his eyes, Gwyn discovered the telltale signs of a burial at his feet, where the ground had been raised and packed down under dancing feet.
The message was clear: Go no farther.
Gwyn returned to Tia, sheathed his blade, and swung into the saddle. He urged her onward again, grim but resolute. He knew the risks. The warning of the Ilidreth made no difference.
Despite the gruesome sign, there was no incident as the day wore on toward evening. Dusk settled over the wood early, stretching shadowed fingers across the green world. Gwyn knew better than to travel by night in this foreboding realm, and he set up camp at the first decent site he found. It was a wide dip in the earth, whose far side opened to reveal a trickling stream. Fallen moss-plagued logs and dead branches littered the ground. He gathered the branches, along with what dry kindling he could find, and used his flint and steel to make a flame. Soon a fire blazed, chasing off the growing chill.
Gwyn tied a canvas from the nearest limb of an old oak and stretched it down to the ground, pinned it, and unfastened his bedroll to spread out beneath the canvas shelter. He plucked a long, straight stick from the ground to draw a circle around his little camp, then fingered a leathern cord at his throat and murmured a prayer of protection to Afallon.
It wasn’t much, perhaps superstition tied to faith, but Gwyn couldn’t be too careful. Not in the territory of the Ilidreth.
/> He checked on Tia tied to a nearby tree, fed her a few oats and what wild grass he could find, and drew a circle around her to be safe.
A quick cup of hot tea, a few bites of bread and cheese, then Gwyn curled up for the night. Despite how weary he felt from the day’s ride, his thoughts churned. For the first time he doubted himself. What had he been thinking, going off on his own in search of the enemy? Yes, perhaps the Ilidreth did have a cure that would save Lawen’s life. What good was that if Gwyn died here alone?
He turned onto his back and sighed, letting his thoughts drift out with his breath. The decision was already made, the journey begun. He couldn’t turn back now; not when this was his last hope. If he succeeded, he would not only save Lawen’s life, but in some sense he would be rescuing Father from this ancient wood.
No, Gwynter ren Terare would not return home empty-handed.
Chapter 3
At the first hint of dawn Gwyn rose and broke camp, saddled Tia, and moved out.
Tia walked at her ease, untroubled by the memories of yesterday. Gwyn let her have the reins and she followed the stream until it disappeared underground around noon. Gwyn halted to let her enjoy the water at its end, while he ate an early dinner and filled his water flask before they started on again.
The sky darkened. Soon it began to rain, but the storm was fleeting, leaving the wood fresh and verdant as the grumbling clouds rolled away.
He drank in the scents, enjoying the solitude. He was accustomed to the lively sounds of the farm, the workers singing in the fields, the laughter of Sila and Neirin, the clucking of chickens, the rattle of wagon wheels as slaves and servants milled about performing their duties. So much hustle and bustle. Here, in this realm as old as life itself, the noise of wildlife, scampering or buzzing by, permeated the wood but it was ancient, hallowed. Somehow wise. I could learn more about life in this place than I ever could in the busy streets of Crowwell or the thriving fields of Vinwen.
A startled sparrow fluttered from a flowering tree as horse and rider strode past. Gwyn tensed, hands clutching the reins. He must remember why he’d come here. Not to learn from the trees, but to bargain with the Ilidreth. Keep your head. The woods, some said, could bespell you and make you lose your way.
He checked his bearings and sighed. He wasn’t lost.
Tia halted, her body quaking. He patted her neck as he glanced around. Tia whinnied.
There. Gwyn sat up straight. This was no tabard pinned to a trunk, but a tall figure mostly hidden by the drooping leaves of a willow tree.
He swallowed to find his voice. “Hello?”
Leaves rustled.
Gwyn licked his parched lips. “I-I seek the Ilidreth.”
The leaves whispered and the figure stepped into view, an arrow nocked and pointed at Gwyn’s heart. The boy lifted his hands to show he held no weapons, eyes wide as he stared for the first time upon a fae creature.
It was beautiful; tall and lithe, slender, with long hair of glossy black and slanted eyes of purest blue. High cheekbones and pointed ears framed the Ilidreth’s face. He — for Gwyn thought it was a man — wore close-fitting clothes, deep greens and browns and purples and reds in motley patterns made from a material not unlike silk, though sturdier.
The creature glided forward, making the barest hint of noise. His arrow never strayed from its target and he halted several yards away, blue eyes burning into Gwyn.
“Were you but a year or two older you would already be dead, young one,” the being said in a melodic tone that brought to mind twinkling stars and a burbling stream. “Why do you seek the Ilidreth?”
Gwyn steeled himself. “I seek a cure for my dying brother.”
The being’s eyes narrowed a little. “You would ask for our aid?”
Gwyn nodded. “I would and I do.”
The being canted his head. “So bold. What is your name?”
“Gwynter ren Terare.”
“Ren Terare? I know the name. Another of your kin came here not many seasons past, seeking the same. He demanded we save his heir and when we refused, he tried to kill us.”
Gwyn bowed his head. “Is that the truth of it? Yet you confess you would have killed me were I fully grown, before I had even a chance to speak. Did my father know better courtesy than this?”
The being’s gaze softened, or perhaps the light overhead changed. “You ask a fair question. I did not expect such from ren Terare’s ilk. Dismount and I shall show you courtesy, young Lord Gwynter ren Terare of Vinwen.”
Gwyn hesitated. “What is your name, if you please?”
The being studied him for a moment. “Celin, perhaps, in your tongue. Come.” He gestured for Gwyn to follow and glided back toward the tree where Gwyn had first seen him. The boy dismounted and followed, leading Tia. “Leave her,” Celin said without glancing back. “Tamed beasts are not permitted in the glade beyond. She will be safe enough here.”
Gwyn hesitated to leave Tia and his weapons behind but followed the Ilidreth past the vine-like branches of the willow.
He gasped.
Before him stretched a vale, wide and bright with white light emanating from the sentinel trees whose crystal flowers shone in full bloom upon the twigs and branches. Celin stood before him, but where before his hair shone black, now it gleamed white, and his raiment had become an intricate robe of woven silver. His eyes, however, were the same pure blue.
Celin wore a faint smile. “Welcome to the Vale of Life, where dwell the Ilidreth. Tell me, young lord, is this courtesy?”
Gwyn tried to drink in every detail. Water flowed like liquid silver, cascading down from a waterfall and into a glistening pool. Though moments before it had been daylight, here a black sky sparkled with myriad stars burning brighter than any Gwyn had ever seen. Strange constellations hung against the heavens, yet foreign names tumbled into his head as he stared at the shapes they sketched. Did something above whisper them to him?
“We cannot be in the same place.”
Celin’s smile grew. “We are not. The Vale is not of Simaerin, but of another Realm.”
Gwyn took a step forward. “I don’t understand. How can this be so?”
“It is magic, young lord. A thing humans have proclaimed as witchcraft performed by sorcerers. Yet the Ilidreth weave magic, no matter your commands, no matter the commands of your king.” Celin’s eyes narrowed, sharp as daggers; then his gaze softened. “Your father was not shown this sight, for he was forceful and impolite. Had he conversed with the Ilidreth as one man to another, as you have done to me, he might have lived.”
Gwyn’s heart constricted. “Did you—”
“Blow out your temper before it flames. I did not slay your father. ‘Twas the deed of another, more prone to violence. Alas, there are many Ilidreth now aligned thus. That is the doing of man.”
“We’ve been taught to fear and hate you. I believed you to be savage.” He searched the Ilidreth’s face.
Celin lowered his eyes. “And so we are becoming, one Vale at a time. Many of my kin are Fallen.”
“But if humans knew of this beauty, surely they would believe you mean us no harm.”
Celin laughed lightly. “Most would not see this even should I lead them here. You, young lord, I have shown because your eyes are willing to see truth where others’ are not. But I see that field of vision narrowing even now. A year or two more and you shall see as other men: a vision tainted by shades and shadows.”
Gwyn bristled and heat bloomed against his cheeks.
“You see?” said Celin. “If an Ilidreth speaks truth, will you, so nearly a man, pay heed? Or shall you deny what you do not think to be right, proving thereby what I say?”
Gwyn bit his lip and shook his head. “I didn’t come to argue, and I didn’t come to learn your ways. I came to ask whatever price you require in exchange for a cure for my brother.”
Celin canted his head. “And if my price were that you learned the ways of the Ilidreth? Or perhaps, the taking of one life in repl
acement of another? What if I should require the Crow King’s head in order to save your brother?”
Gwyn’s eyes widened. “That would be impossible!”
“It may be indeed. You are fortunate that I do not require such a weighty price.”
“What then is your price?” asked Gwyn. “Will you help me after all?”
“I may, young ren Terare. But the cure is not so obtainable as you appear to assume. Have I a magic plant that would heal any disease? Even the Vales of Life are not so powerful. I do not know what ails your brother. How can I administer a cure?”
Gwyn’s heart clenched. “Human healers have already tried everything. My father believed you possessed something special. Was he wrong?”
“I do not possess any such thing. But I begin to understand what it is your father sought.” Celin turned east, eyes boring into the trees, as though he saw something in the darkness. He lifted a hand, finger stretched forth. “Travel by way of the Serethenwé, the ancient path of shades, until you come to a road of crystal. Follow that northward and you shall reach Shaeswéath, in your tongue called Swan Castle.”
“But Swan Castle is just a myth.”
Celin smiled. “To many, young Gwynter ren Terare, so are the Ilidreth.” He lowered his hand. “Only in Shaeswéath may you find a cure so potent as you need, and then perhaps not. Beware: the road ahead is filled with snares.”
Gwyn let his shoulders slump as dread raked its cold fingers through his limbs. “How far is Swan Castle? My brother won’t last much longer.”
The Ilidreth frowned. “Even should you ride without rest and encounter no dangers, it would take nearly two of your human months to return to Vinwen with the cure in hand.”
Dismay tumbled over Gwyn, dragging his shoulders down. “That’s far too long!” He clenched his hands as they trembled.
“In truth, it will take much longer, for your mare will not survive the journey,” said Celin. “Nothing so tame can long last in the True Wood.”
The Complete Duology Page 2
