by Rene Sears
"No. He has pulled it straight from the source outside our walls." Hawthorn's long braid lashed from side to side as she shook her head. Her eyes shone with tears, but none fell. "If she could save him, she would, but now we can only make sure that his actions are not wasted. Here." She pressed a flat glass disc into my hand. "The door back is different from the door there; it moves at entirely random intervals. This will help you find it, once you have your family." I shoved the disc into my pocket.
She flung open the double doors to the workroom, and Rowan and I followed behind her. It was a familiar scene from my youth recast as a nightmare: Marcus in a fully-drawn circle, complete with incense and candles, and runes of power lit in silvery light so bright I didn't even need to summon my caster's vision to see them. The whites of his eyes were tinged red from burst capillaries and blood dripped from his nostrils. As sick as he was, the effort was too much for him. The silvery light blurred and I pushed tears from my eyes with the heel of my hand. If we couldn’t stop him then I could at least try not to squander his sacrifice.
He looked right at me and nodded once. He was too far into the spell to speak. I wanted to tell him we would have found another way. I didn't know if it was true.
A door in the wall glowed bright silver. Rowan took my hand. I never would have thought to find comfort in the touch of the Queen's Blade, but I did. I squeezed his hand back.
Now. I twitched. The thought was not my own.
"She says go now!" Hawthorn yelled.
I wrenched the silver door open and took one last look at Marcus. He met my gaze and smiled, teeth stained red from the blood leaking from his gums. I turned forward, and Rowan and I crossed the threshold of the door into Faerie.
*
It was dark, wherever we were, and the thought crossed my mind that it would be a damn shame if after all that the door was still in the dungeons.
Rowan's hand tightened on mine. He might be having the same thoughts, or it might be the curse's hold on him returning after its absence in Strangehold. It must not be night in Faerie, because he hadn’t become a falcon.
There was light behind us, so I turned. The faint silvery outline of a door glowed for a few seconds longer, fading away into nothingness. The light had illuminated the space we were in; a closet, big enough that I was fleetingly jealous for the storage—my house overhill had been built in the fifties, and the closets weren't spacious—with a few cloaks or robes hanging in one corner. I brushed the wooden walls with my free hand until I felt the door.
"Should we open it?" I whispered.
Rowan cocked his head, listening, and nodded. I dropped his hand, my palm suddenly cool without his warmth, and slowly pushed the door open. The hinges didn't creak, and the silence outside had a still, empty quality—no breathing, no slight movements. The room was opulent but the air was musty, and a thin layer of dust coated the furniture. Light spilled through slatted wooden blinds at the windows, but none of the lamps were lit.
Rowan followed me, looked around, and flinched, ever so slightly. "We're safe. No one will be here," he muttered.
"Do you know where we are?"
He ran one finger through the dust covering a chair. "These were my old rooms, when I was in the queen's favor. I had thought she would have gotten rid of them, or given them to someone else. How sentimental of her." His tone was dry, but a note of pain ran under it. But I doubted he would want to see pity from me.
"How close are we to Gwen's rooms?"
"If the court has not much changed since last I was here, we are but perhaps a ten minutes walk." He looked at my jeans, t-shirt, and backpack and frowned. I did look out of place next to him, but I hadn't had time to dress differently even if it had occurred to me.
He turned back to the closet we'd just emerged from and pulled out a coat. It was a dark brown duster with a high collar and panels of embroidered flowering branches running down it—rowan leaves, of course. I dropped my backpack and pulled it over my clothes, and he nodded. "Keep your head down and follow behind me. Hold your bag as though you are carrying something for me. If we encounter anyone, don't speak. I have not been to court in some years, but I was never forbidden it, so no one is likely to question us."
"All right." I took a deep breath and followed him to the door. He rolled his shoulders back and stood straight; I could almost see the role of Lord Rowan settling over him. He opened the door.
Graceful marble arches formed an open-air courtyard, and vines tipped with bright red blossoms twined around them, meeting in a lattice overhead. They were no plant I knew, but the fragrance was wonderful, something between honeysuckle and jasmine. Potted flowers in marble urns brightened the base of each column, and thick stands of lavender lined the walkways. Birds flitted from plant to plant, calling to each other, and bees buzzed a counterpoint.
The court of Faerie wasn't the single palatial building I had envisioned, but a series of smaller structures that made a harmonious whole. The central building was the largest, and it must be where actual court was held, but the rest was a honeycomb of gardens and residences. Rowan's house was one of many, none of them so close that one would feel the press of one's neighbors, but none so far that one could entirely avoid them, either. Rowan looked around, then strode off through an arch down one of the paths. I followed, head down, but eyes darting from side to side. Every step brought a new beauty out of the corner of my vision, and I wished I could just sit and take it in and enjoy it. I thought of our last meal overhill before we went to Strangehold; the dim bar redolent with the stink of old beer, pop music playing faintly, too bland to be worth listening to, and soggy fries under electric light, and wondered how he had left this for that.
He walked purposefully, and while we passed a few other people, none of them did more than murmur a greeting and keep walking. They seemed wary; shoulders set, overly stiff and formal. It reminded me again of the bar, the wait staff looking at us suspiciously. The queen had shut the gates because of some threat. Had these people been attacked somehow? I kept my eyes downcast, though I itched to know who we passed, and whether they were a danger to us. The hair on the back of my neck and my arms wanted to stand straight up. What if someone called us out? Would they know I was here for Gwen and the girls? Every time someone walked by, my nerves ratcheted a bit tighter, until I half wanted to yell myself, just to break the tranquil stillness. We turned down another open path—how did the residents keep them all straight?—and Rowan's step sped up. I hoped that meant we were nearly there.
"Lord Rowan!" This greeting was not murmured but called out across the courtyard. Rowan stopped. The line of his back was stiff, but his voice was perfectly friendly when he answered.
"Lady Briar, I had no expectation of seeing you here." He bowed low, and she returned the courtesy. She was tall and lovely, with golden skin, hair the red of rose hips in the fall, and eyes the amber of a cat's. A certain tension in the set of her shoulders suggested she might be nervous.
"Nor I you. But I hope the pleasure is not lessened for being unexpected." She hesitated, glancing around. There was no one near but us, and me she ignored entirely. "You found it, then," she said softly.
This was the Briar who had told him about Strangehold. I kept my eyes on the flagstones beneath my feet, but sweat prickled along my upper lip. Would she try to stop us? To find out why he had needed to know about Strangehold? Then I sneered at my paranoia; of course she'd think he'd needed to get back to Faerie. He was here; that was explanation enough.
"You were most helpful, and I will not forget it. If you will excuse me—"
"If there is else you need, you have only to ask."
"If there is, I will."
"I want to help you."
"Delphine, I beg of you..."
She sighed. "Your mother was asking after you."
"Please give her my regards when next you see her." His voice was still perfectly polite, but suddenly infinitely colder. Lady Briar must have heard it as well, because she begg
ed her leave.
I felt her eyes on my back as she returned the way she had come. Rowan muttered something under his breath and started walking again. I no longer cared for the beauty of the garden, only for finding our goal. Not long after we came to a residence much like all the other residences we had passed. I didn't see anything marking it as an ambassador's home, or the embassy of overhill. I ached that I didn’t even recognize Gwen's house. I'd been reluctant to come here first because of my connection with Matthew, and then when Gwen married Elm, I hadn't wanted to scuttle her chances of finding acceptance from her husband's family. From here, it seemed so shortsighted. So stupid. This was her life, and I hadn't been a part of it. I'd apologize when I saw her, and I wouldn't be such an idiot in the future. I touched the oak tree over my heart for reassurance, and promised myself.
Rowan did something—what, I wasn't exactly sure, but the warm feel of his magic buzzed against my nerves, an echo through all my ink of the power we'd shared in Strangehold. The star over the pulse of my wrist vibrated softly. A moment later, the door opened to reveal a handsome man: long blond hair, luridly blue eyes, high cheekbones, lean and tall—my brother-in-law. Elm. His eyes widened as he took in his visitor, and his face paled. I don’t think he even saw me. "Lord Rowan! I—what brings this honor?"
"May we come in?"
Elm looked past Rowan at that we and noticed me. His eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "Well. Yes, by all means, come in. You are welcome here." He was looking at Rowan as he spoke, but the last was said to me. It was a neat trick, and I'm not sure how he managed it.
He stood aside to let us enter, and as I walked closer, I saw his eyes were rimmed with red. I touched the tattoo over my chest without meaning to; the girls were still well. But I had no such assurances as to my sister. He shut the door firmly behind us and locked it.
"Guinevere told me you swore to protect them," he said abruptly.
"I did, and I mean to keep my word." There was no immediate need to tell him that a dead woman had told us they were key to the future of Faerie. There would be time for that later.
His face relaxed, but then his brows drew together as he looked at Rowan. "And you, have you taken up the mantle you cast aside? Did she send you for my daughters?"
"I am here as a favor to Morgan," Rowan said, not altogether gently. "I am no longer the queen's to send. Have you reason to suspect she wishes your children ill?"
"Gwen thought so. I thought her fears were foolish, but now..." His lids slid closed over blue irises, and tears spiked his eyelashes but didn't spill. "I don't know what to think. Morgan—you may not see your sister again."
I sucked in a breath, a wordless protest against the sudden hole in my chest. I couldn’t accept it—another loss, the worst loss. It wasn't that I thought she was immune to harm, but on a cellular level, I didn't believe in a world where she didn't exist. I struggled to get a handle on myself. He had said may not see her. I managed to force words through the wall of my disbelief. "What happened?"
The beautiful blue eyes opened, still gleaming with grief. "The queen's creatures took her."
Next to me, Rowan went very still.
"How is that possible? She's done nothing wrong. She's the ambassador. She should have been safe." Gwen was the representative of the Association. They were not the only group of casters treating with the fae, nor were they necessarily the most powerful. But they were the biggest official organization of casters in North America, and Gloriana could not possibly think to disappear her without experiencing repercussions. But she had shut the feygates; maybe she meant to close off Faerie and earth forever and didn't care what the Association or any other group would say about it.
"What about other ambassadors from overhill?" I looked to Elm. "Is she the only one taken?"
"Some of the others were brought to the queen, but Guinevere was the only one she kept." Lord Elm's shoulders heaved, and then he stood very still. He looked at Rowan. "You know better than I what will happen to her."
Rowan took my hand. "I will do my best to find her. It may be that we can yet retrieve her." Kept did not mean dead. Not yet.
"I have protested formally," Elm said. "For whatever good that will do. But my expectations are not high." He walked to a closet on the far end of the room and pulled out two camping-style backpacks. "Take the girls away from here, before her eye falls on them too."
"You could come with us," I said.
"No." He wiped his face. "I mean to disguise their absence for as long as I may. No one will look for them if they do not seem to be missing. Besides, from here I can better aid their mother, if there is aid to be found."
I took his hand and tried to imbue the simple clasp of hands with the gratitude I felt to him at that moment. It was only one chord of a symphony of worry, grief, and hope, but he was doing what he could for his family. I had been so focused on all the reasons the match was a bad idea, I had never stopped to think about why Gwen loved him. I understood a little better now.
His fingers tightened around mine, and then he extricated himself. "Come with me. Their rooms are here."
We followed him deeper into the residence. Here and there I could see touches of Gwen: in the gathered irises in a vase—her favorite flower, in the battered paperbacks on a bottom shelf, below shelves of gleaming leather books and small vases and miniature works of art. A narrow hall led to bedrooms; one I assumed to be Gwen and Elm's, as he pushed open the door of the other. Two girls clad in tunics and trousers were sprawled across twin beds in a scene that would have fit in anywhere overhill except they held a book and a metal locking puzzle instead of cell phones. They sat up as we walked in and looked questioningly at their father.
For a moment I wanted to protest that he had the wrong room—these girls were far too old to be my nieces. But time ran differently in Faerie, and these were the girls. Two pairs of solemn eyes stared out at me, one a brilliant green, and one as brown as my own. I had thought I would have more time to know them as they grew. I wasn't good at guessing children's ages—they varied so much as individuals, you could put a five and seven year old together and not be sure who was older—but if I had to try to pin them down, they looked to be around ten.
Igraine's bright green eyes shone against olive skin and dark hair like mine. People were going to think she wore contacts her entire life. Iliesa had Elm's high cheekbones and pointed ears, and blonde hair the exact shade of my mother's. I cleared my throat against the sudden lump in it.
"I'm your aunt Morgan," I told them. "You were babies the last time I saw you."
"They are aging quickly even for Faerie," their father murmured. "Guinevere and I speculated why, but..." He spread his hands.
"We remember you." Igraine's green eyes were solemn.
"You were so young." I swallowed. "I'm glad. I'm looking forward to knowing you better."
"You will be staying with your aunt for a time." Lord Elm tried to force a smile for his daughters.
"Why? Where's Mom?"
"She has had to go away, and I'm not sure when she will be coming back." He knelt and embraced them both. "No matter what happens, always remember that your mother and I love you very much."
Now they looked frightened—and how could they not, after a statement like that? Igraine opened her mouth to ask a question, but a melodious chime rang in the front hall. Lord Elm was on his feet in an instant, his face drawn. "All of you," he murmured, "stay very quiet. Please, make no sound."
His footsteps echoed down the hall. I knelt down between their beds, and tried to look reassuring. They looked at me, then at each other, and some voiceless communication passed between them. Igraine reached over and took my hand. Rowan padded silently over to the door and motioned me over with a jerk of his chin. I squeezed Igraine's hand and joined him. He flicked his fingers and the star at my wrist tingled. I raised an eyebrow and he mimed shutting the door. A glamour, then, so the door would look closed from the outside.
We peered around the r
eal door, my hand poised to close it. Lord Elm's back was to us. His head was bent over a piece of folded paper, and a person waited in the doorway. He had a crane's long neck and a bright spray of red feathers on the crown of his head, but from the shoulders down he was humanoid, except for the graceful wings folded at his back. They did not look big enough for flight, but this was Faerie, so I wouldn't have taken a bet. He was wearing what appeared to be livery in shades of green and gold.
"Of course I will come at once," Elm said, "but her majesty must excuse my daughters. They are unwell, and resting. The stress of their mother's absence has been very difficult for them." A slight movement pressed against my back. The girls had come to listen. I couldn’t blame them, but I pressed a hand gently against Iliesa's shoulder when she would have crowded into the doorway with Rowan and me.
"Her majesty asked for all of you." The crane's voice was polite, but managed to convey disapproval regardless.
"They are children," Elm said, "and they are unwell."
The crane cocked his head. "Perhaps if I might look in on them..."
Elm straightened. "You doubt my word?"
"No! No, my lord, of course not. But in these difficult times, the queen requires all assurances."
"I must protest," Elm said, "in the strongest terms, this implication of dishonor. I have already brought the matter of the baseless imprisonment of my wife to the head of my House, and I assure you I will not hesitate to add this to my charge. The court will know how her majesty's servants impugn a lord of Faerie."
The crane's head ducked in a sinuous bow. "Nevertheless..."
Elm turned, back straight, and marched down the hall toward us. I grabbed Rowan's arm without thinking about it. He crooked his arm tighter so both of us were in front of the girls and the fingers on his free hand twitched. The glamour was still up, for whatever good that would do us. Would the crane be able to feel it? I looked over my shoulder; the girls were both all big eyes, but Igraine had something gleaming in her hand, and Iliesa held a wooden cane like a baseball bat. I held out a hand, silently urging them to wait.
