by Ryan Graudin
I want to close my eyes and stop my ears, to shut out the snarls of my hunters. Words, fragments of spells rush through my head with panic too extreme to control.
It’s over, a despairing voice cries out in my thoughts. If, when, Cari catches me, she’ll be sure to silence me. Unmake me.
Crack. Dry twigs break so close they sound like the snapping of bones.
No. I must live. For Richard.
His face rises up beyond my parched, glazing eyes. With it, in the last possible moment, comes the spell. Áhredde. Áhredde. Áhredde. A wingtip twitches. A clawed foot curls into itself. I shake free. Howls of my pursuers carry like wind, whipping against my ear. They aren’t far—I have to move fast.
Flying is out. The Banshee’s magic will only rip me out of the sky again. I need to be close to the ground, faster than the dogs. So I slip into the skin of a fox: fur of fire and nimble, dancing paws.
There’s no time to grow comfortable in this new shape. I dash out of the underbrush, tearing free from the thin, scratchy vines. My feet carry me fast, making quick, instinctive turns to throw the snarling Black Dogs from my trail. Their breaths fall, hot and heaving against my tail, as I dart ahead. As hefty and large as northbound wolves, they can’t slip through the same gaps my fox form can. I gain a few meters by ducking, leaping, and weaving through the labyrinth of Highgate.
My heart pounds, a frantic reminder of my preserved life. It isn’t only the dogs giving chase. Banshees and Green Women blot the skies. I’m surrounded on all sides, except the path directly ahead, running for my life.
Finally the cemetery gate swims into my exhausted eyes. I push past exploding agonies in my muscles, run for it. The fox’s slim frame fits perfectly through the bars. I’m on the other side, breathless, but I don’t stop running. A simple gateway won’t hold the angry soul feeders. I’ll only truly be safe in Buckingham, under the protection of the Guard.
My legs won’t last. The left one limps from an encounter with a gravestone. It won’t be long until I collapse. Flying is my only choice; I must enter the skies so thick with hostile spirits. I can’t even breathe right as I lope back into human skin. My body lifts off the ground in a rush of forced magic, shooting me down the street with the speed of a race car.
London whips by. Every blurred block saps a little more of my magic. At first, I treat the blocks of buildings like gravestones, slipping in and out of them to lose my pursuers. But the toll is too much.
Just before the river, my magic falters. I land softly on the street and pick myself up, wobbling on barely recovered feet. The old cramps return. I cry out in pain, but I can’t stop. Stopping means death.
I hobble down the sidewalk, sticking close to the many buildings I pass. After two blocks of this pain-lanced race, I begin to despair. There’s no way I can keep this up all the way to Buckingham.
Then I see it. My blue-and-red savior: a sign for the Underground. My leg bones jar against each other as I push into a final, desperate run. I half slide, half tumble into the station entrance and collapse by a Cadbury vending machine, limp and without breath.
But at least I’m underground. My powers seep back through the once-white grout of the station’s tiled walls. The only other people who trot down the steps are a slightly intoxicated, giggly couple and a gang of strangely dressed teenagers. I gather every ounce of energy that trickles back into me, until finally I have enough strength to make it to the trains. I push myself onto unsteady feet, shuffle through the turnstile, and trek down the remaining sets of stairs to the trains.
It’s no secret that the Frithemaeg are stationed at Buckingham. I’d hoped, in my furious flight, to beat the soul feeders back, to reach the shelter of the gates and the Guard before they did. That chance died with my broken steps. In all likelihood, they’ve set an ambush around Buckingham, waiting for me. I can’t go back there. Not yet. For now I’ll stay on the train, making endless loops underneath London, saving my strength. I sit, rest my head against the window. The station falls behind in a streak of light as the train snakes off into the many wormholes of the Underground.
Twenty-Six
My joints are unhinged, cramped together only by muscles as tight as rubber bands when I walk down the platform, toward the station’s exit. So many people rush past me, flooding the trains. It must be after dawn. The soul feeders are least likely to attack me in broad daylight. Now’s my chance to return to Buckingham, to tell Breena what I’ve seen.
The Guard is bristling. Their faces are as pale as marsh lights, arms shake with uncast spells when I approach the palace. I halt several meters away, watch them with care.
“Your signature, sister,” a chestnut-haired youngling calls out. I think her name is Lydia.
“Of course.” I don’t dare move as the sign slips from my fingers into the air. These Fae are too tightly wound, ready to explode.
My shimmering gold bird is enough to make them relax. I take in their row of expressions: tired, grim. “What’s wrong?”
Lydia looks past me, into the lush tree line of Saint James’s Park. “We were under siege last night. Banshees, Green Women, Black Dogs . . . all of them were out there. They left at sunrise. No doubt they’ll be back.”
So I was right not to return in the darkness. It only would’ve ignited the beginning of what I now know is an inevitable war.
“But the royals are safe?”
“Yes.” Another youngling nods. “The king and the princess are both here.”
Which means Breena is too. A shudder threads sickness through my bones. After not listening to her warnings and failing so miserably—how can I face her and admit I was wrong? I should have returned with her.
“Also there—” Lydia pauses, digs her slippered foot deeper into the chunks of gravel. “There was an attack. At least, we think there was.”
An attack? I feel my blood slowing with my heart. “What happened?”
“G-Gwyn was unmade,” the Fae says, unable to still the tremor in her voice. “There were traces of battle magic on the edge of the grounds. None of us felt the spells until it was too late. When we got there, Gwyn had already slipped away.”
Lydia’s pretty face has turned a peculiar shade of green. I look at the others, staring at me with wide, whitened eyes. Fear glosses over them, quick and catching.
“And the attacker?” I ask.
They shake their heads as one.
“No sign,” Lydia offers. “It could still be in the palace.”
My mouth is dry, resisting all attempts to swallow. “And no attack was made on the king?”
“None. He’s safe. For now.” There’s defeat in the youngling’s words. I can only imagine, after last night, the multitudes stretched out: dark, beautiful waves of monsters lapping at Buckingham’s gate. How many hundreds of gruesome endings played out in the young Faes’ minds as they waited for the attack?
But really, isn’t there only a single ending? I close my eyes, try to blot out the images of shadowed hordes and gravestones. Right now we’re alive. And it’s my job to keep things that way.
The Guards step aside as I pass the palace’s perimeter, their auras tingling and flaring against mine as I pass. So fresh and untested. Now that I know what we’re up against, I don’t see how we can protect the crown as we are. We can’t stay here, not with an assassin loose in Buckingham’s halls, not with the city crushing, draining, squeezing any strength we have left.
The king’s office windows yawn open to the warm gusts of morning breeze. I approach loudly, trying to make enough noise so Richard won’t start at my appearance. Ferrin’s head pops out from behind the curtain. Her curious expression morphs into a shock so gaping it causes me to look down.
“Lady Emrys, what happened to you?”
My dress is in black, lacy shreds, all intact fabric splayed in dirt. Heavy, red welts and bluish beginnings of bruises color my arms. A glance into the windowpanes shows my face a mess of scratches. My hair is irreconcilable, draped in knots and
tangles over my shoulders.
“Rough night.” My whisper is hoarse, like sandpaper. Either Richard doesn’t hear it, or he’s feigning ignorance as he hunches over his desk, fountain pen looping over creamy stationery. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
I hover in the open window long after Ferrin and Helene leave for the perimeter. My body feels so mortal: aching and falling apart as it leans against the window jamb. I don’t even know if I can move. All of me is so, so tired. Tired of running, of fighting, of having to choose.
Richard turns slowly. Rum-gold sunlight drips over his face. I have only a moment to admire it. So many curves and edges. In his jaw, nose, cheekbones, brow. The perfect balance of softness and strength.
But then he sees me, and the horror dawns. Eyes widen, taking in the signs of my narrow escape. His lips are pressed so tightly they turn white.
“It’s okay, the others are gone,” I tell him.
“Good God, Emrys! What the hell happened to you?” He jets from his chair, leaves it spinning as he comes over, hands outstretched. They hover just over my skin, too afraid to touch.
I’m stunned still by his reaction. My window reflection must have glossed things, made the wounds lesser than they are. Suddenly everything—the bystander’s death, Breena’s anger and abandonment, the run for my life—explodes in my chest. Warm, salty tears pour out.
“Are you all right?” Richard’s hand steadies me. All the feelings, raging like a tempest set off by butterfly wings, fall still against his fingers. His touch is peace. Home.
The tears keep falling, despite the glassy stillness in me. They drop thick and fast, rolling down my cheeks. There’s so many of them that soon I cannot see.
Richard guides me to his desk chair and kneels next to it, hand looped fiercely into mine.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his thumb stroking the top of my hand.
“Just a rough night,” I say, and wipe the heavy dew from my eyes.
He knows there’s more I’m not telling him—the knowledge is scrawled all across his face. His mouth draws thin as he looks at my arms, the dozens of fine pink lines dug out by witch-claw thorns and vines.
“What happened? Who did this to you?” he asks, careful not to touch any of the raised scarlet scabs. Righteous anger traces his voice.
“I was being a Frithemaeg,” I mumble. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
Richard sighs, disappointed. I know it’s because of my silence, but that’s the one thing I can’t break. It wouldn’t do any good for him to know how much danger we’re in, especially if he can’t do anything about it.
“I’m sorry—” I begin, but Richard’s head turns at a sudden sound. I look toward the window, my mouth falling into stunned stillness. There, on the crisp white ledge, perch three ravens, tar feathers glossing indigo under the sun. The birds seem smaller outside the walls of their Tower, but they’re no less formidable. Black eyes gleam and their claws scrabble strange symbols in the ledge’s paint.
I feel the tears swelling again, but this time they’re fueled by panic. Never in the four centuries since their first arrival to the Tower of London have the ravens set claw or feather outside its boundaries. It’s the worst of omens.
And I know, even before their large razor beaks open, that they’ve come to speak to me. Words of doom, inspired by their second sight.
“Listen well, sister, to what we have seen,” the middle raven, the oldest of the bunch, croaks.
The bird on the right squawks. Its foot continues to scratch fragile lines into the wood. “The shadow is gathered. Her arm grows restless, her hand is moved. Two paths spring for Albion.”
“When all the silver face shows, the angered one shall strike. Beware the crown! Beware the crown!” the last bird cries.
“The Lord of the Wood is waiting. Seek the power in the blood,” the middle raven says as it flaps its wings. The feathers are still meticulously clipped, to keep the animal from flying. The ravens must have used their own strange magic to make this journey.
“Do you understand what they’re saying?” Richard whispers. Shock, white as the cliffs of Dover, washes out his face.
I squeeze his hand to quiet him, but the ravens have finished talking. They watch the king, a row of beady, unblinking eyes. Richard looks back, grows tense under their gaze.
“She is coming,” the middle raven says. “She’s coming for your crown and head.”
Richard shudders, his hand an earthquake in mine.
“Have you seen her?” I ask the trio.
“She is only shadow. Old, dark shadow,” the right raven shrieks.
“Beware the crown!” The left raven turns and hops off the window ledge. Its black wings flutter ineffectively—wind passing straight through its feathers.
“Have all of you left the Tower?” The question spills out, quick. The birds are getting ready to depart and the answer is one I can’t afford to lose.
“We leave. Others stay. The road is divided. Farewell, sister. We will not see you again.”
The last raven bows and follows its brothers to the closest patch of grass. I watch from the open window as they gather into a small ring and stretch their wings. As soon as all their wing tips touch, the birds vanish from sight. My breath is sharp as I stare long at the space: green and bare. The ravens are gone. Really gone.
“So we’re coming to the end.” I speak across the emptiness of the lawn.
“Is it true?” Richard’s voice drags me back to him. To his hand knotted tight in mine.
“Is what true?”
“The legend. Those were Tower ravens, yes?” He gestures toward the vacant window.
The prophecy of a failing crown and a fallen kingdom after the ravens’ departure. The legend typed into tourist pamphlets and minded by every mortal Beefeater who keeps the birds’ wings clipped. That’s what Richard means.
“It is. But they didn’t all leave. I think they still haven’t seen the end. The ravens’ sight only goes so far.” I can’t help shuddering. Even the fact that three chose to leave the Tower stirs fear in my blood.
“What did they tell you? I couldn’t make anything of it. Sounded like squawking to me.” Richard tries to laugh, but the sound is forced.
My fingers squeeze against his, offer him something firmer to cling to.
“They said that the Old One is coming for us on the next full moon. They want us to go to Windsor and seek Herne’s protection. They haven’t seen the outcome—only the two paths that this kingdom can take. One with you and one without.” I fall silent, musing over the rest of the ravens’ words, the ones that I don’t fully understand. Beware the crown. Seek the power in the blood. Who am I supposed to be wary of? Richard? Anabelle? Both seem very unlikely. As for power in the blood . . .
“We’ll go to Windsor then. I’ll call Lawton and have him make all of the arrangements.” Instead of moving to the phone, Richard steps closer to me. His hands rest on my hips, where they fit perfectly, and his forehead taps against mine. “We’ll be fine. It’ll all work out. You’ll see.”
I shut my eyes. His breath brushes warm past my eyelashes, rolls down my cheeks. I try to think of nothing, fighting off thoughts of last night, of the ravens’ message. I try to feel only Richard, to be content in his arms. But it doesn’t work. The thought of losing him is too heavy, strangling.
“There are five days until the full moon. I should go and warn Mab. She’ll be able to send Frithemaeg to defend the edges of the city. And if we’re in Windsor we can get the older Fae even closer. If we can convince Herne to protect us . . . we might even have a chance.”
Richard’s hands slide past my hips, dipping around to the small of my back and pulling me closer. “Do what you feel is best.”
There’s something he’s not saying. I feel it in the tension of his fingers, his voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you have to go to Mab? If we really only have five days left . . .” He takes a breath. “Emrys, I don’t want to be
without you. Stay. Please.”
I’m tearing to halves in his arms.
It’s my duty to go to Mab, to offer this vital information in the flesh, so it arrives safely. But in five days, when the Old One finally reaches us, it won’t matter. It won’t matter if my warning was spoken word or ink on paper. All I’ll remember is this time with Richard, fitting so exactly against every divot and bend in his body. His arms holding me together, into him.
“Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Of course.” Richard digs across the already cluttered surface of his desk and produces a sheaf of paper along with his elegant fountain pen.
I etch the ravens’ words onto paper in blocky black script. They look so much more ominous and real when they’re strung together as letters. Those two lines still stand out, taunting me with hidden meanings. After scrawling my name, I fold the paper into fourths, seal it with magic so it can only be opened with Mab’s touch. When I feel it break I will know my message got through.
Richard watches me the entire time, his face washed blank. This quickly turns into a smile when he realizes I’m staring back. “I never thought my first few days as king would be so exciting,” he says glibly.
“Nor did I.” I don’t have the energy to pretend that things will be okay.
It doesn’t take long for the youngling to arrive after my summons. Our exchange is quick: she listens to my instructions with a never-ending nod and jets off into the hazy summer sky, soon swallowed by cotton-whipped cumulus clouds. They roll forward on furious wind, ready to cloak the city.
Twenty-Seven
The afternoon is perfect. A quilted sky, patched with aquamarine, sieves sunlight over Buckingham’s gardens. Everything is warm, yellow, and happy. As if our world isn’t about to crumble to pieces.
“We don’t have to go if you’re feeling too bad.” Anxiety scores Richard’s cheeks and squeezes his eyes with premature wrinkles, signs he’s second-guessing the prescheduled lunch with his sister.
“No, no. I want to meet her.” I pick at one of the larger knots in my hair, impossibly snarled and stubborn, and try not to think of how, very soon, I’ll be facing Breena’s dragon-fire contempt.
