by Ryan Graudin
He stands on the path in front of us, his giant mount and his twin horns casting no shadow. I let my horse fall still with the others, too spooked to continue. Some deep, animal part of them knows that edgy, dangerous magic stands ahead.
“Come on, girl!” Anabelle digs her heels into her horse, but the bay keens, high and nail curling.
“Something’s spooking the horses,” Richard tells her with a quick glance at me. “Maybe we should choose another way.”
Herne remains motionless. An untrained eye might mistake him for a grotesque cast-iron figure. He speaks. The words rumble across the space between us, their very sound exuding power. “So it’s you, woodling. I never forget a pretty face.”
I watch him, bound to silence by Anabelle’s presence. The princess is entirely oblivious, distracted by her horse’s breakdown.
“You’ve chosen to reveal yourself to the mortals?” Herne’s head tilts, his lead-sharp horns skewering the empty space between leaves. “How odd.”
My lips stay sealed as I glance at Richard. The king is staring at the path, his sight going straight past Herne’s fearsome form. The powerful Lord of the Wood nudges his mount a step closer. The royals’ horses back away nervously. Only my mare holds her ground.
“You have something to ask of me. I sense it. Tell me, what does your kind want now, youngling?” Herne’s voice, closer and more terrible than before, causes my horse to shake and sweat beneath me. There’s a bitter edge to it that makes my fingers coil.
We’ve come to ask for your protection.
Herne is silent. His eyes continue to burn into my skin like the bright orange end of a cigarette. I begin to wonder if he even heard my thought.
“You speak of what stirs in the north,” he says finally.
Yes. It’s coming for them. It wants to destroy the crown.
“What’s wrong with you?!” Anabelle’s face flushes bright as she digs her heels into equine muscles. Her hair has come unclipped, pouring gold like olive oil across her cheeks.
“And you wish me to protect them?” Herne finishes my thoughts for me. “Your queen thinks she can use me like a mercenary? As a bodyguard for hire? I follow no one. Not even your precious Queen Mab. It wasn’t enough for me to grant her the use of my land, she thinks she can demand my powers as well.”
I stiffen, barely able to move. What’s Herne talking about?
The confusion must be painted clearly on my face, since Herne’s response is quick, aggravated. “Mab has already asked—no—demanded my aid. As if I were a hound suited to answer her horn.”
I cringe, slouch closer to my horse’s neck. Mab, out of desperation or some false sense of strength, had tried to command Herne. Rage rolls, full of sear and char, off the spirit’s aura. Slowly, inevitably, I see our chances of survival slipping away. . . .
“Do you know why this is happening, little woodling? Why this force is rising? Perhaps you are too young to realize this, but the mortals have become too strong, too forgetful of the old ways. They’ve managed to destroy most of Albion with their machines. They are eating the land, killing our magic. Perhaps it’s better that we stop them. I cannot say. But I will not raise my hand against them. They’ve done me no wrong.” He nods toward Richard and his sister.
But the crown and the blood magic. It’s what holds Albion together!
“I swore no oath to Pendragon. That was your precious queen.” His voice rises, shaking the deepest marrow in my bones. “Now be gone. And bring no trouble to my woods!”
Herne’s giant charcoal horse turns and vanishes in the wink of an eye. The faint green afterglow of the woodlord’s shape stays in my vision. It gradually disappears as I blink, trying to process all of his words. The Old One is coming and there’s nothing we can to do stop her.
I gasp as the air leaves my throat, leaving room for the settling shock.
Anabelle looks up at the sound, her face a mess of blonde and half-forgotten annoyance. “Emrys, are you all right?”
“I—I—” I struggle, fight for every new breath. It feels like my body simply doesn’t want the air anymore. “I don’t feel well. I think maybe I should go back to the castle and rest for a while.”
Richard’s face turns paler than the spots of sunlight falling on it. “I’ll go with you.”
“I’ll come too. It’s no fun riding alone.”
Richard’s mouth pulls tight. He’s unhappy with his sister’s company. It’s just as well. If I can’t even process the truth myself, how am I supposed to tell him?
“You shouldn’t have counted on Herne.”
I jump at the voice, look down. Breena is close to my knee, keeping up with my horse’s every stride. Her face is calm, collected—the exact opposite of my churning insides. There’s no smugness in her blue gaze, just the solid knowledge that, in the end, she was right.
Why would Mab try to command Herne? She should’ve known he would get angry. . . .
“I’m sure she was only doing what she thought was best. There’s still time to leave for Balmoral. We don’t have to stay here.”
The mare’s jerky trot jars my backbone. I wish it would rattle my thoughts too. Then maybe I would be able to say something useful.
We’d be going in blind. There’s no way of knowing how many soul feeders are between here and there. We should wait for Mab’s response.
Breena’s silence tells me I’m right.
I shut my eyes, trusting the mare to follow the other horses back to the stables. Not all’s lost, I shouldn’t think like it is. The Old One’s strength is still untested and Mab’s help should arrive soon. I manage to keep my face blank all the way back to the stables.
“We’ll wait for Mab’s response,” Breena agrees once I slide out of the saddle, my skin zipping fast down polished leather. “It should be back by this evening, yes?”
Maybe sooner. Even my thoughts feel numb.
“I’ll have the others start preparing the defenses. Four days isn’t much time.”
I’m dizzy, I realize as I walk away from the horse. Herne’s denial was a bigger shock than I was ready for. I reach out for a stall door, try to steady myself against bars of unyielding iron. Instead, support comes from behind as Richard’s hands wrap, warm and solid, around my shoulders.
“Are you okay?” he whispers into my ear, and guides me to the stable’s bright, airy entrance.
I stare at the ground, at the scuffed edges of Richard’s riding boots. What can I tell him? The one hope I had, my last resort, just rode away on his high black horse.
“What’s wrong?” Anabelle is next to us, winding her hair up into a wispless ballet bun. Right now, if I could talk, I would tell her that it looks better down.
“She doesn’t feel well. Stomachache,” Richard says. “I think I’ll take her to lie down.”
“Anything I can do?” his sister offers.
“No need.” Richard shakes his head. “We’ll see you at dinner.”
He guides me through the twists and turns of the castle. Windsor is the same as I’ve always remembered it, but I can only trail Richard’s gentle steps like a reluctant child. My limbs have lost the power to move of their own will. I follow him, feet slow and dragging, into the bedroom.
“I’m fine.”
“At least sit down. What happened? Did you see Herne?”
I have a seat on the bed, clutching the comforter’s fabric in both hands. “He said no.”
Richard’s eyes don’t move. I wait for the panic to creep into them, but it never appears. His stare stays steady.
“He doesn’t want to help us,” I go on. “He says spirits have a right to be upset because of all the machines the mortals have created and how the forests are being destroyed. He thinks your death might be a good thing, because it’ll strengthen magic and help the Fae live on.”
Anger simmers, burns slow in my veins as I speak. By the end, I’m shaking.
“And what do you think?” Richard’s voice is stable, as unmoving as a monk
in meditation. Compared to him, I’m an unraveled, childish mess.
I take a breath. The air leaks out of me slowly as I regain perspective and a tiny sliver of calmness. “He’s a selfish arse, but he has a point. The Fae are unhappy with the world as it is. Some of us, like the Guard, have learned to adapt. But others, especially the older ones, can’t stand to see magic falling apart. The Old One that’s after you wants everything reversed. My guess is she wants Albion like it was long ago, before machines and mortals. The others want power too. They don’t want to hide anymore.”
Richard’s quiet, buried in the depth of his thoughts.
“If you weren’t bound by Mab’s oath to protect the crown, what side would you choose?” he asks finally.
“It’d be nice not to be sick all the time,” I mutter. “But that’s hardly a reason to justify what they plan to do. Mortals and Fae coexisted happily long before the machines came along.”
“So there’s a happy medium.”
“I don’t know where or how—but yes. There has to be. It would change England forever in the eyes of the world. You would no longer have cars or lifts.” I stop. How silly to be arguing about machinery when our lives are at stake.
“But we would have magic.” He stands from the bed. The mattress springs up, tossing me like a wave. “I want to talk to Herne.”
“What?” I stare at him. He means what he says.
“Herne. I want to speak with him. Is that possible?”
“I don’t—only if he wants to show himself to you. It won’t do any good though.”
Richard’s arms fold over his chest. The veins in his forearms bulge, making crisscross formations beneath his skin. “I want to try. Can you take me to him?”
Visions of Herne in his primal wrath tear through my mind and, with them, panic. “You don’t have to prove anything, Richard! We’ll figure out something else. . . .”
He shakes his head. “I’m king now, Emrys. He might not listen to me, but he’ll respect me. I have to try.”
There’s no telling what Herne might do, though I can see there’s no changing Richard’s mind. “We should wait a while. If we approach him again so soon, he’ll just be irritated.”
“After dinner, then?”
I nod, trying my hardest not to show how my insides are unraveling, looping apart with fear. Herne made it quite clear that he didn’t want to be bothered again. And forces like Herne the Hunter shouldn’t be dealt with lightly.
“We’ll get through this, you know.” Richard kneels down, touches his nose to mine. “Just have a little faith. Trust me.”
My eyes close. I feel the time slipping over us, passing second by second. Grain by grain. Soon, very soon, we will run out, be smothered by the sand at the bottom of the hourglass.
I should tell him how I feel. But the moment is wrong, tainted by so much doom and darkness.
“I do,” I whisper. “I do trust you. It’s just that—”
He breaks off my words with a kiss, hands tangling through my hair. I let his lips take me away. Away from the worry. Away from the time we no longer have. I lose myself in him until the fire springs between us. Richard draws back, reluctant and slow, breath sharp like raining arrows.
“You’ve done so much to protect me. It’s my turn now.” He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, his thumb ghosting across my cheek. “Let me do this for you. For us.”
Everything about him speaks confidence. His touch, his voice, the hint of a smile on his lips. If only it were so easy for me.
Twenty-Nine
Dinner is a small, unremarkable event. I pick at my baked chicken—my stomach is turning too much even to think of putting food down there. I keep sipping at the tongue-twisting lemonade. It washes, the perfect combination of sour and sweet, down my throat.
“Mab’s reply isn’t here yet.” Breena breaks our arbitrary silence. Her chilled words slide down the long glass-coated dining table. “That’s not normal. Something went wrong.”
As much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. I sent my message over twenty-four hours ago. Any response, especially for a situation this urgent, should’ve arrived by now.
But Mab received the letter. I felt her open it.
“The message must have been intercepted on its way back.” Breena frowns. Her stare drifts aimlessly around the gilded room, over tiger lilies and gold-plated utensils.
Even if that happened, Mab would know. She’d try a different way of getting the message to us.
“Maybe she’s still trying.”
But no matter how many times we move the pieces around a particular excuse, nothing fits the way it should.
Something isn’t right, Breena. I feel it. Maybe Mab’s court has been compromised.
Blood abandons Breena’s face, leaving her vampire pale. “Then we’re trapped here. Blind. Without protection.”
“Can I get you anything, Emrys?”
“Oh, nothing.” I straighten up, hoping Anabelle hasn’t noticed my intense staring match with the vacant space next to her.
“I hope we aren’t boring you,” Anabelle says, her fingers winding delicately around the stem of her fork. “Things will be a little more lively tomorrow when the rest of the family gets here.”
“The rest of the family?”
“I thought it would be nice to have the entire family here for a few days.” Richard nudges me underneath the table.
It means more Frithemaeg, but also more people to protect. The Old One will come in here and wipe out the entire royal line like pieces from a chessboard.
“Oh, lovely,” I say, my voice growing weak. “I’ve been wanting to meet them.”
“What did the raven say?” Breena’s nails tap against the table’s sleek surface, regaining my attention. “Tell me the exact words.”
I shut my eyes, struggle to remember the prophecies. All of this mental juggling is giving me a headache.
Something about a shadow. Her hand is moving. Two paths grow for Albion. When the full moon arrives, she will strike. The Lord of the Wood is waiting. Beware the crown! Seek the power in the blood. I falter at the last few sentences, suddenly facing those hidden meanings I couldn’t wrap my mind around before.
“Beware the crown.” Breena’s lips tremble, a bruised, sickly shade of blue. “So Mab’s court has been compromised.”
Of course. The crown in the prophecy wasn’t talking about Anabelle or Richard. The danger lurked in Mab’s court, where I’d sent a youngling with all of our vital information. My only hope is that Mab managed to destroy the letter before it reached enemy eyes.
I’ll bet it’s Titania. She always was after Mab’s power.
Breena’s hands rise over her face, shielding her from everything. They stay there for ten long breaths. In, out. In, out. I mirror her lungfuls of air, try to fight the despair and hopelessness that creep up like the tide.
“There’s no use speculating.” My friend’s hands fall back to the tabletop. They stay flat and unmoving, like the depths of her eyes. “It could be any one of the courtiers. All that matters is there’s no help coming. And no way of knowing where we should go.”
How did we get into this mess?
“It’s easy to see now. Whoever infiltrated Mab’s courts must’ve had control over the scouting parties. It’s no wonder they couldn’t find anything. They were being led into dead ends the whole time!”
Something inside me breaks. It’s myself, my spirit as it was before countless years of humanity’s sugarcoating. From the years before Camelot, when I was a wild thing, tearing through the moors and mountains. Unbound. If I give in to it now, the room and everything in it, except Breena, will be destroyed.
Breena sees the breaking. “Save it,” she says. “You’ll need it for what’s coming.”
I close it up, stitch by painful stitch. The beast inside roars with protest, aching to be let out. My rational self silences it. Breena’s right. I’ll need it for what’s ahead.
I pick up the polis
hed fork and jab it into the closest piece of chicken. It doesn’t matter that the food will upset my stomach. Not a lot matters now.
“Anabelle’s afraid you don’t like her,” Richard tells me later. “I tried to tell her you were just tired, but I don’t think she bought it.”
“I was busy talking with Breena.” I’m blunt, in no mood for apologies.
But Richard doesn’t ask for an apology. He doesn’t even ask about my conversation with Breena. His mind is focused on one thing. “Will you take me to Herne now?”
I look through his bedroom window on to the fading scene of the Great Park. I feel him, roaming somewhere beneath those silver-etched trees. He won’t be pleased to see us again.
But now the fear is gone. Herne’s voice has already spoken. It said no. Let Richard have his turn. There’s nothing left to lose.
“Yes,” I speak into the panes. “I’ll take you.”
“Thank you.” I feel him draw in close behind me, but he doesn’t touch me. His reflection in the glass is all worry. It’s the only anxiety I’ve seen on his face this whole time.
“Have you really given up already?”
I turn, meet him face-to-face. Deep-creased lines of concern around his eyes quickly blend into the rest of his skin.
“I’m sorry. It’s just hard to see how it’ll turn out any other way. Mab’s court has been compromised. There’s no help coming. We’re alone now.” I try to keep my voice flat, like a windless lake, but there’s too much roiling underneath. Some words break.
“Then we’ll just have to convince Herne, won’t we?” Our hands lock together. In this moment, his fingers twisted and curled into mine, the future isn’t full of dark and burning.
“And if not,” he continues, “we’ll face what’s coming together. I don’t regret a moment I’ve spent with you, Embers. Even this.”
