Uniting the Heavens

by Emily English

  Selina noted the tears that fell from his eyes as she held the bloodied kerchief in place. “I’m scared,” she said.

  He let go of his desk and squeezed her hand. He hushed her, keeping his eyes closed. “It’s just a headache.”

  SIX

  The headaches were getting out of control. Aren hadn’t suffered this much since before he was apprenticed, and he was determined to not get kicked out of the House because of his ailment. The headaches were the reason he had gone on his most recent fishing trip, but thanks to the messenger, he didn’t have time to figure out how to let the illness run its course. There was only one way he knew of to fix this quickly, before it began to affect his job.

  Aren sped through Tiede on the back of Bontan, whom he had borrowed from the House gree stables. His speed elicited a few stares, but it didn’t matter; the closer he got to Tiede Wood, the less his head pounded, further convincing him that he was doing the right thing.

  He rode towards the eastern cliffs. The wall on the east that protected the town from a thousand-foot drop to the sea came to an abrupt end at the point where the Wood began to become more dominant. Bontan managed the perilous white gravel without care and delivered his rider to the Wood’s edge. Aren dismounted and secured him to a tree trunk. He removed the pouch of water that was strapped close to Bontan’s neck and poured it into the gree’s waiting mouth as if he were nursing a cub. Aren stroked the top of Bontan’s nose, and the gree purred deep with satisfaction. “I don’t intend to be long, but if you get a feeling that something bad’s happened to me, feel free to cry out and let someone know, all right?” Bontan snorted as if in agreement.

  Aren’s headache had diminished to an annoying throb, and as he took his first steps into the mossy darkness, even that was beginning to fade. He took another look at the sun sitting high in the late-afternoon skies and hoped he’d be able to find his way back out. He knew a quick peek wasn’t going to cure him. Whatever was calling wanted him to stay awhile, have tea. A few more steps—his boots pressing into the soft, leaf-and-needle-covered earth—and he was in near total darkness. He looked back again, feeling fairly certain that he could find his way back out.

  Stars, what was he thinking? There had to be other ways to cure a monstrous headache. Maybe even the Illitheien stork doctor had an answer; all he had to do was ask. Aren took a deep breath. Maybe he should stop kidding himself; something masochistic in him wanted to go into the Wood.

  The air was cool under the canopy of trees, and the smell of dirt and moss and wet things filled his nose. He ran a hand through his hair and made his way towards a small clearing where slivers of light managed to filter through. This place felt familiar. He took note of the trees that ringed the clearing—the flaky, dark-gray bark and the odd mark slashed into each one, revealing white wood inside. If the mark was some sort of character, he didn’t know it. Perhaps they were symbols, runes. Had he put them there?

  He rounded a worn boulder, his hands drifting over the surface where the strange marks were also etched. He wasn’t sure if there was something he had to do or some ritual he had to perform. If he could remember his past experiences, that might be helpful. Instead, he stood among the mushrooms and flowers feeling like the biggest fool in the world.

  “You called and I came!” he yelled. “What do you want from me?” The Wood stopped breathing. Feeling a knot in his gut, he spun around, panic beginning to overtake him. “Let’s get it over with!” There was nothing but the thick silence. His breathing became more rapid, and he had to force himself to remain calm.

  What are you doing here? a small voice asked in the Ancient tongue. Aren spun around, sweat breaking out all over his forehead.

  Another small voice, from a different direction, spoke, You’re past the age of reason. You shouldn’t be here.

  “Who are you?” he asked in Ancient, whirling around. “Were you the one who called me?” He forced himself to slow his movements as his eyes continued to adjust to the varying degrees of black. A flicker of vapor illuminated the clearing. Aren held his breath and watched as the vapor shifted then materialized into two children: a boy and a girl. They stared at him through the dark midnight-blue eyes of the Tiede bloodline, their bodies semi-translucent and mist-like. Aren felt his heart go out to them, and he asked in Common, “Do you need help? Where are your parents?”

  The little girl giggled. You’re the one who needs help. Her head changed from that of a child to an owl and back. Aren took a step away from them.

  Are you here because of the threat to Tiede? the boy asked in a grave tone. The magic is being pulled in all directions. Is that why you’re here?

  Aren thought his legs might give, and having to translate was threatening to give him another headache. “I’m here because someone is calling me. Was it you?” His mind raced as he watched the children, their hands clasped, their faces innocent one moment, then owl-like masks with frightening, blinking eyes the next. He recalled the old sigils of Tiede, began to match the sigil to the names and the stories. “Lady Tiede Lis and Lord Tiede Lars,” he breathed. “You died hundreds of years ago in a fire that consumed the nursery during a mage uprising. You’re alive.”

  Im. Na nasbolv Tiede, the boy said before proceeding to explain what had happened to them.

  “The Tiede curse killed you?” Aren held up a hand, overwhelmed. “You don’t happen to know Common, do you?”

  The children looked at each other, then back at him. The Lady taught us, little Lord Lars said in Common. We didn’t call you. Perhaps it was the Lady. He paused. You’re Aren, then.

  Lis let go of her brother’s hand and approached Aren. He backed away again, and she clasped her hands behind her back. My dolls are in the secret space. Could you bring them?

  This is no time to think of toys, Lis. He has to listen to the magic, listen to the words and the name. Maybe the Lady called because he can understand it.

  “I don’t understand anything right now,” Aren mumbled.

  The girl took another step closer, her eyes wide and flickering. But you have to try. Tiede’s in trouble.

  Aren was torn between reaching out to them and running away. He was about to step forward when a tiny orb of green light began to dance towards him out of the darkness.

  Lis! We have to go! The magic! Lars said, grabbing his sister’s hand. He locked eyes with Aren, then said, Listen. You have to listen! A’ars Tiede. They disappeared, evaporated into nothingness as if they were a figment of his imagination.

  “Protect Tiede,” he muttered, his brain catching up to translate the boy’s last words. “If this isn’t madness, I don’t know what is.” Aren started after the children, then stopped, distracted by the green light again. He stared, mesmerized by its lilting movement, the glow surrounding it chasing away the shadows that were slithering towards him. The light grew and he wanted to shield his eyes but couldn’t. He watched, mouth slightly open, as it paused in front of him. “Did you call me? Are you the Lady?” he whispered, hypnotized. “What do you want from me?”

  The light began to spread until it seemed to mingle with the darkness, and then standing before him was a fae. Her head reached no higher than his chest. Thick, shiny green hair tumbled to her knees, covering her lithe, naked body, her spring-green skin. She looked up at him with large, dazzling green eyes that slanted upwards with thick lashes.

  Her slender arms reached up and around his neck to pull his head down towards her, and she kissed his mouth with a passion that was eerily familiar, if not altogether strange. Aren felt a strange rush of euphoria as his headache disappeared, then everything went dark.

  SEVEN

  Aren felt his heart pounding hard in his chest as green images flashed through his mind and strange noises rang in his ears. Where was he? Was he dead this time? The air was filled with the heady scent of dream flowers. His vision was clouded with silver and mist, but he wasn’t sure if his eyes were open. He felt as though he were falling off the high white cliffs of Tiede in
to the inky sea below. He clawed for purchase and felt loamy soil and crispy, dead leaves crushed between his fingers.

  Arguing. Voices were arguing about something; a woman was pleading, crying. I had to call. I hoped he wouldn’t find out, but you’re the only one who can save Tiede. Her voice was like an embrace.

  He remembered fae folk and faeries. Coy, lovely faces peeking out from the shadows of trees, flirtatious eyes looking him up and down, naked skin in pastel shades making him curious and bashful all at once. How long had he been unconscious? Was he dreaming?

  “What do you want from me? Are you the Lady the children were talking about?” Was he screaming? He couldn’t tell. He wanted to run, but which way was out? Would his legs work? Stars, he was going to be trapped here forever. What did he do last time this happened? It was so long ago.

  Tiede is in trouble. The magic is too strong. You have to warn—

  The woman was screaming again. The sound of it wrenched his heart to pieces, and he thought he would die. He covered his ears and fell to his knees, begging for the pain to stop, begging whomever it was to stop hurting her.

  As if in answer to his wish, every noise ceased, save his own ragged breathing. He looked around, vertigo seizing him as the tiny orbs of faerie light swirled in his periphery. He felt the eyes of the gorgeous faerie nymphs on him, surrounding him, watching with indifference and amusement.

  “Talk to me,” he breathed. “Tell me you’re all right. Where can I find you?”

  No answer came, except for the bubbly giggles of the fae folk. He cursed them under his breath as he gritted his teeth and puzzled over how to escape this hell. The woman must be part of his imagination. The Wood was torturing him, playing to his weaknesses. As if on cue, the green fae who had kissed him earlier walked towards him, a tantalizing swing in her hips. He inched away on his hands and knees, trying to keep his eyes on her face. She smiled as if she could read his mind.

  Run, Aren!

  He squeezed his eyes shut and doubled over, his head reeling with pain. His senses felt heightened, and he detected the slight give of earth as the fae stood over him. As she ran a small hand through his hair, a sigh of pleasure escaped her.

  That was when the ground shook and the trees quivered.

  The fae eased her way behind him, pressing herself against his back. She ran a hand over his jaw, then cupped his chin, forcing him to look up into the canopy of trees, where darkness layered over darkness, and steel and fur and bone seemed to form from tree and rock and shadow.

  Was he dead?

  The voices had returned but were muted now. Aren opened his eyes and tried to adjust them to the movement of shadows. The air felt cool on his skin and he bolted upright. His shirt was missing, and there were cuts across his chest and shoulders. In the strange faerie light, he could see bruises the color of leindra blossoming on his skin, and the bandage he was wearing over the cut Vir had given him was gone.

  Angry noises came from the depths of the Wood, and the faerie light was moving through the darkness. Had he escaped somehow? He couldn’t remember. He hoped he hadn’t hurt that beautiful green creature.

  What was he thinking? Who knows what she had planned to do to him? Still…

  A knife was thrust in his face and he cried out. Then a dirty, calloused hand with fingers like small sausages was clasped over his mouth. His eyes widened as he let out a muffled yell. He fought against every urge to run as the knife hovered between his eyes.

  EIGHT

  Dane swore as he stared past the tree line into the blackness of Tiede Wood. He had sworn earlier when the stable hand told him that Aren had taken Bontan to run an errand, and he had sworn again when he found Bontan napping by a tree at the Wood’s edge.

  He tied his mount next to the other gree and checked his weapons. Then, he took a long pull on his flask before returning it to the small pack he had thrown together. He followed the tree line west, away from the cliffs. He kept his blades sheathed. When it came to swinging a sword, he didn’t have to question his gut, and as he walked, feeling the pull of shadows, he realized he didn’t have to question the path he was taking now.

  He stopped at one of the larger trees, a wide ghostwood whose smooth, white bark had felt the burn of magic at one point in its ancient history. He looked up to see the jagged, crimson-and-black scar that marred the bark deep and long on its southern side. Dane traced an imaginary line from the scar to the tree roots, where he knelt down to brush aside the years of leaf and nut and needle that had collected in the pockets and crevices. Half a dozen trees along this unmarked path had similar scars, so he wanted to make sure this was the right one. The last time Aren had gone into a trance, Dane realized that he always ended up in this particular area near a mossy boulder. When he shared this information, Aren suggested they establish some sort of marker system, and this tree was the first marker—or so Dane hoped.

  When enough of the forest debris was cleared away, he brushed at the dirt along the spot of the trunk where the thick root rose from the ground like an octopus tentacle curving up out of the water. Carved deep into the wood were the distinct points of the Guardian constellation, connected by an unbroken line. He ran his calloused fingers over it, then stood up, taking a deep breath as he stared into the dark.

  “You’re going to owe me for this, little brother,” Dane mumbled before walking a straight line in search of the next marker.

  NINE

  Selina sat on the white stone bench beneath the large window in Aalae’s worship room. As the ocean breeze swept in and ruffled her hair, she could almost imagine Aren was there, mussing her hair as he always did. But almost wasn’t good enough, and she was on the edge of her seat, hoping that Dane would find Aren soon.

  Goddess, please watch over him, she prayed. She tried to imagine the Water goddess, but she was so distressed that her mind could only conjure an image of Aren fighting off a mage and a unicorn.

  Crina and Min stood by the altar, speaking in hushed tones as they plucked pale-pink petals off the roses gathered in a heap before them. Selina couldn’t hear them, but she thought she heard Aren’s name at least once. She wondered what they were saying.

  Nianni joined her, setting down a large wicker basket as she took a seat. She pulled a square white linen cloth and began to fold it. Selina watched, then tried to mimic her, placing the folded cloth on the bench between them. “Try not to look so sullen,” Nianni whispered. “You don’t want anyone to know the Apprentice is missing, do you?”

  The Priestesses said Aren’s name again, and Selina asked, “Why are they talking about Aren? Why does Head Priestess seem so annoyed?”

  Nianni grimaced. “I imagine anyone talking about the Apprentice must have reason to be annoyed.”

  Selina narrowed her eyes at her, then gave up on folding. She looked over her shoulder out the window, noting the pale-blue sky and the faint wisps of clouds smeared against it. The sun was past its zenith, but it wouldn’t set for several hours yet. That was good. Dane could get Aren out before the Wood woke up.

  “You can see the Laithe from here,” Nianni said.

  Selina got on her knees to have a better look. The sea winds tugged at her hair, and she pushed the strands away from her face. The bright-blue Laithe sparkled far away, a beautiful mask concealing the wreckage of ships and the drowned enemies of Tiede. She leaned out, wondering where the Water goddess had fallen to the fisherman’s spear.

  “Away from the window!” Crina’s voice was stern and sharp, whipping through the silence like a lash.

  Selina turned, setting herself down. Were Priestesses not allowed to look out the windows? She trembled as Crina made her way towards them. Nianni, who seemed just as startled, was on her feet, her head bowed. “I’m sorry,” Selina apologized. “I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong.”

  “More for your own good,” Crina said, craning her neck to look out the window. “It’s a long fall.”

  Min remained by the altar, plucking petals. In he
r calm, even tone she said, “You can see Tiede Wood from here, and some people claim to have visions while looking on it. The visions send them to do mad things like jump out of windows.”

  “Cursed magic,” Crina growled as if to scare the magic away.

  Curious, Selina turned back to the window, angling herself so that she could see the Wood. Crina didn’t stop her this time, lost in her own thoughts and memories. Selina could only see part of the Wood and was disappointed that she couldn’t see Aren. The Wood was too large and she was too far, but she tried to picture him anyway, walking away from the Wood, safe from harm. She wouldn’t mind that sort of vision at all.

  The treetops shuddered, shadows and light chasing each other across the leaves and branches. Selina imagined the sound it made—something like rushing water, only thinner, more fragile. She thought she could float right out the window, and she reached for the ledge, feeling the warm stone under her hand.

  “Trum,” she felt the word escape her lips before she realized she had spoken. “It’s very bad. The dead are laid out on the streets like refuse, their skin burned and littered with magic. The entire city is on fire, and the mages have converged on the House.” The words were not her own, and in her mind’s eye she saw the handsome prince of the Night Realm. His hair was a black cascade, and the endless depths of his dark eyes seemed to stare back at her with sadness and loss. How could anyone be so beautiful in sorrow, she wondered.

  Nianni’s voice was far away, high and panicked, but Selina heard the way her silver jingled, felt the girl support her, laid her down on the bench.

  Selina fought for air, overcome with emotion and the sounds of wailing and breathless fear. “Watch the House, children. The Wood says it’s playtime.”

  TEN

  Aren forced himself to breathe, then met the slate, watery gaze of the thing that was holding him at knifepoint, uttering low, gruff words. Upon seeing who it was, Aren thought he would cry in relief, and as every muscle in his body relaxed, the soil-scented sausage hand uncovered his mouth. The squat, familiar gnome stood next to him, a grin on its whiskered face.