by Jocelyn Fox
I tested the strength of the knots binding my hands, making the pole creak.
“What are we going to do?” I breathed.
“You will escape,” Finnead replied.
“What do you mean, I will escape?”
The guards outside shifted. I knew I was pushing my luck.
“Even if I escape these bonds, I can’t cross the circle,” Finnead explained. “I’m trapped here either way.”
My heart sank as I realized the truth in his words. I sank down against the pole, swearing softly as the bark rubbed my already-bleeding hands. A hopeless anger welled up within me, and I clenched my fists as tightly as the ropes allowed. “I can’t believe that Mab allowed that…that snake to come out here and do this,” I growled, no longer caring if the guards heard me.
“Without the Sword, the Court will fall to Malravenar,” Finnead replied. “The Vaelanmavar has proven that he’ll do anything to get the Sword.”
“Like torture innocents,” I said. The mere thought of the kind, gentle Glasidhe princess in the hands of the Vaelanmavar made me tremble with anger. My skin rippled with goose-bumps.
“Like torture innocents,” Finnead agreed grimly. He rested his dark head against the tent-pole. “There is a dark side, especially to the Unseelie Court, Tess. There has always been dissenters, who favor the old ways.”
I didn’t feel like talking—I wanted to break the tent-pole over the Vaelanmavar’s head, and then kick him in his family jewels for good measure. But Finnead’s words sparked my curiosity. “What old ways?”
Finnead shook his head. “It was before even my time. Back in the young days of the world when everything was wild and fresh. The Unseelie Court garnered a reputation for indulging in the crueler side of pleasure, especially when it came to dealing with mortals. When Mab came to power, she introduced much more…civilized past-times.”
“In all our legends, the Unseelie Court is portrayed as rather cruel.”
Finnead nodded. “That’s not by accident. Titania ran a rather admirable propaganda campaign at about the time of Elizabeth. She managed to insinuate herself into the affections of a certain playwright, even, and he wrote her into one of his plays.”
“Propaganda,” I murmured. “Interesting.”
One of the guards shoved the tent-flap aside. “It’s our orders to make sure you’re silent,” he said, “and we can ignore a bit of whispering—” he gave me a significant look—“but at least keep it so that the bastard can’t hear you at the other side of camp!”
I nodded. Then the guard did something I didn’t understand—he touched two fingers to his brow and said, “To the true Bearer,” in a soft, quick voice before disappearing again. Finnead stiffened, his head coming up from where it had rested against the tent-pole.
“What did he just say?” I whispered softly. “I don’t understand, Finnead.”
“I wish I didn’t understand,” he murmured.
“Please, tell me.”
But he shook his head and fell silent. I sighed in frustration and tried to find a more comfortable position. In the end I drew my knees up and leaned back against the pole, ignoring its warning creaks. Slowly the anger and frustration seeped out of my body, leaving me cold and tired.
“Ramel and Kavoryk won’t leave me here,” I murmured, mostly to myself, my head lolling wearily against the pole.
Then a long, blood-curdling howl rose in the silence, filling the stale air in the tent. It sounded like a wolf, but…wrong. More sinister. I knew in my bones that it was a garrelnost. My body tightened with instinctive fear as a second howl, and then a third, and a fourth, joined the first. “There’s a pack of them,” I whispered.
“They’ll attack tonight,” Finnead said. I saw him pull in anger at the ropes binding him, and he cursed softly under his breath.
The blood-curdling chorus of shrieking howls continued, rising in pitch and volume. I wanted to cover my ears with my hands, but I settled for softly humming any song that came to my mind, filling my mind with the imaginary accompaniment rather than let the enemy’s scare tactics paralyze me with fear.
A different guard came in, and from the slant of light that fell through the tent-flap when he entered I realized it was late afternoon. The hours had blended seamlessly with frustration and anger, merging with fear at the terrible sounds filling the forest just outside the tent.
“Are you going to leave us here, with them just outside?” I asked as the guard silently placed a hunk of bread and a few strips of dried meat in front of me and untied my hands.
“I would eat that quickly,” the guard said in reply.
I noticed he didn’t have another portion of food. “Do you intend to starve the Vaelanbrigh, then?” I asked coolly, rubbing my chafed wrists.
The guard wouldn’t look at me.
“Don’t worry about me, Tess,” Finnead said.
“Of course I’m going to worry about you,” I said in irritation, standing and stretching with the food in one hand. “Am I allowed to walk around a little?” I asked the guard, who shrugged unhappily. I took that as a yes, and I walked over to Finnead, wincing at the painful stiffness in my knees and ankles.
“You look terrible,” I said as I saw his face.
“Thanks,” he said wryly, looking up at me through his black eye and smiling, his lips stained with dried blood.
“Give me your canteen,” I said to the guard, and though he bridled a little, he handed it to me. I unscrewed the top and dampened the edge of my sleeve, pulling the cloth over my palm. When he realized my intention, Finnead stiffened and half-turned his face away. “Let me,” I said softly. “Does it really cost you that much to let someone help you?”
He took a breath and looked at me, and after a moment something gave out in his blue eyes. He nodded slightly and closed his eyes as I gently washed the blood from his face.
“Enough with the tender moment,” the guard said sullenly.
“You don’t have to watch,” I retorted, glaring at him hotly, and he looked away. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?” I asked Finnead. He shook his head, and I decided not to push my luck. I walked back to my pole and sat down, eating the bread and meat quickly, washing it down with water from the guard’s canteen. “Don’t worry, I don’t backwash,” I said to the guard, who only looked at me in irritation. I smiled sweetly as I handed back the canteen. He took it, hooking it back on his belt distastefully.
I held out my hands, pressing them together at the wrists.
“All right, officer,” I sighed, “cuff me.”
He gave me a strange look, clearly confused by my reference, but he positioned my hands behind the pole and picked up the rope.
“Your job is so difficult,” I said as he wrapped my hands. “Tying up poor, defenseless mortal girls….it must be so taxing.”
The guard finished tying my hands quickly and left without so much as a backward glance, plainly eager to take up his post outside again.
“You shouldn’t antagonize them so,” Finnead said.
“I’ll antagonize whomever I please,” I replied. “And it’s not like it was pointless.” I tested the knot on the rope tying my hands together. I grinned when it gave a little. It wasn’t as though he’d left me untied, but my irritating banter had gained me a bit of precious slack in the rope.
I took a deep breath as more sounds joined the garrelnost howls, creating a cacophony of spine-tingling hisses and shrieks and snarls. “How many of them are there?” I whispered, wriggling my wrists against the rope.
“Enough,” Finnead replied.
I wondered if a spark of taebramh could bite through the rope, and I shook my head, that I hadn’t thought of it earlier. But when I reached for the well of white fire beneath my breastbone, I couldn’t touch it. I saw it clearly in my mind’s
eye, burning like a miniature star in my chest, but it was encapsulated beneath a dark film of fear, a membrane woven of doubt and apprehension. “Well, then,” I said to myself, fighting down a small swell of panic, “that won’t work.” I gritted my teeth and kept turning my wrists against the rope, reaching blindly with my fingers until I got the knot in my grip. Outside, the afternoon light faded, fueling my industrious work. I bit my lip in concentration.
“ Finnead, I think I can get this knot,” I whispered triumphantly after a good stretch of strained silence. My lower lip was sore.
He straightened and leaned his shoulder back as far as he could, turning his head so he could look at me out of the corner of his eye. “If you can get free,” he said quietly, “untie me. I will distract them.”
I remembered that the old Vaelanbrigh had died so that Finnead could escape his captors, all those years ago. I hoped fervently that Finnead wouldn’t have to give his life—the thought made me sick—and that I wouldn’t be recaptured. I swallowed and nodded. “When?”
“Whenever you are ready,” he replied.
The deepening shadows draped over the tent. I worked the knot furiously, taking a break when the muscles in my palm and wrist seized up. When the spasm passed, I went back to work, scowling in concentration. And then, suddenly, the rope fell away. “Got it,” I whispered.
I watched the silhouettes of the guards outside as I crept forward breathlessly. I froze and held my breath when one of them stood; but he was just stretching his legs. The dull murmur of their conversation, uninterrupted and unworried, reassured me. I slunk forward and started on the knot keeping Finnead’s ankles tied to the pole. The knot was tight. I worked at it furiously. My fingertips began to bleed, smearing red onto the rope, and I wished that they hadn’t taken my daggers. Finally I loosened the knot enough to untie it.
I couldn’t help the small sound of indignation that escaped me when I turned my attention to the rope binding Finnead’s hands. A fine strand of dark, dull metal ran through the rope that bound his hands. “Is that…is that iron?” I breathed.
“No matter,” replied Finnead, shaking his head.
I waited until my hands stopped trembling before I began working on that knot, letting out a small hiss of sympathy at the horrible charred burns around the knight’s wrists. It explained his weariness, and his silence.
“The bastards,” I growled softly, trying not to hurt Finnead any more than absolutely necessary.
The knot was loose, and almost ready to be untied, when one of the guards swept aside the tent-flap. I froze, but Finnead pulled at the rope with a grunt of pain, and I untied the knot with one last quick movement. The guard shouted as Finnead leapt at him.
“Go!” Finnead shouted.
I jumped past the two struggling men, bursting out into the deepening dusk, looking about wildly for our weapons. The other guard turned in surprise and I saw it was the unruly-haired young Sidhe from earlier in the day. I sent him a silent apology as I hit him solidly square on the jaw with the power-hand punch that I had perfected in sophomore boxing class. He staggered and I cursed, hitting him again. He fell to the ground. I stumbled over to the pile of weapons and sorted through them quickly. I paused as my hands touched the sheath of the Brighbranr, a spark of foreign power biting my palm. But then a muffled shout from the first guard spurred me into action. I grabbed my sword belt and one of the daggers, clutching the sheaths in my hand as I turned.
A low mist covered the practice field. There were no fires tonight. The guard’s shout had alerted the sentries, and I saw one train his bow upon me as I ran along the edge of camp, my heart pounding in my ears. But no arrow slammed into me, and I sprinted through the long grass, aiming for the intersection of the path and the forest. My sword slipped in my hand and I stumbled, falling heavily on one knee and skidding before gathering myself, throwing my body into a headlong rush as more shouts rose behind me.
I should have tried to free Kaleth, I realized in despair as I thought of the Sidhe’s inhuman speed. There was no way I could outrun them—my breath was already coming harshly, despite my runner’s pedigree. So even though every instinct screamed at me to stay in the open, I swerved into the forest, cutting a sharp angle into the trees. Panting, I stopped behind a thick tree and buckled on my sword-belt with shaking hands, sweat sliding down my back despite the coolness of the air. I slid the dagger into my boot-top sheath.
I ran for a little while more, angling deeper into the woods while still aiming toward the path—or at least where I figured the path to be. The deepening shadows licked at my feet, fawning against my calves as the inhuman sounds of Malravenar’s forces increased in volume, sending ripples of goose-bumps over my skin. Sweating and panting, I finally stopped and took stock of my surroundings, every ounce of hearing attuned to the sounds around me. The cries and howls and shrieks were uncomfortably close. My nerves vibrated with fear, and I couldn’t suppress the memory of the garrelnost’s hideous gaping maw, the ropes of saliva sliding down its huge teeth, its mottled tongue and fetid breath.
I didn’t know how long I would have to travel in the forest until I reached open land again, and I knew I stood no chance at outrunning any creature that happened upon me. I had little idea of the location of the iron barrier enclosing the battlefield, so I couldn’t count on that for safety. In the fading light, I found a tree with a sturdy branch that curved out of the trunk a good arm’s length above my head. I gathered myself and jumped, wincing as the bark of the tree scratched the tender spots on my wrists. Gripping the branch with both hands, I walked my feet up the trunk, shifting my grip one painful handhold at a time until I could swing a leg over the branch. I hoisted my body up so that I was laying face-down on the branch, and I rested for a moment, eyes closed. Then I carefully rose into a crouch and climbed as high as I dared into the tree’s shielding branches. Only when I was securely wedged in the crook of two high branches did I allow myself to think about my escape. I leaned back against the tree and let myself shake, giving in to the tears of exhaustion pricking at the corners of my eyes. I had escaped the Vaelanmavar’s clutches, only to run into the dangerous, enemy-infested forest. I listened to the terrible cries of Malravenar’s army, and hoped I could survive the night.
Chapter 30
Full dark fell over the forest. Sleep was out of the question, even though I was more tired than I’d ever been in my life, exhausted emotionally and physically from the events of the harrowing day. I hoped fervently that Finnead didn’t suffer because of my escape, even though he’d made it clear he was willing to sacrifice himself for my freedom. I leaned my head back against the rough bark, wrapping my fingers around the cool, smooth circle of Gwyneth’s pendant.
I needed to get to the river-tree, that much I knew. But I was on foot, without any help, wanted for treason by Mab and an easy target for Malravenar’s forces as well. A slight breeze rustled the leaves of the trees. I shifted on my branch, keeping one leg stretched on the tree-limb and dropping the other leg to one side of the branch to keep my balance. My sword hung down from my belt on the other side.
I half-closed my eyes, unwilling to shut them completely despite the fact that I could barely see my hand in front of my face in the pitch-black of the night. I’d never slept in a tree before and it was too long of a fall to the ground if I did lose my balance. The chorus of howls and shrieks had died down into near-silence just after I’d climbed up into the tree. Suddenly, back in the direction of the barracks, an ear-splitting shriek tore through the air. I crossed my arms over my chest and pressed myself back into the tree-niche, aching with pure loneliness and fear. The shriek wasn’t a garrelnost—it sounded like some kind of hawk-like creature. And soon after, I heard terrible sweeping wing-beats above my head.
I froze, curling into myself and trying not to breathe, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to press down the fear choking me. The huge flying creatu
re—by the sound of its wing-beats, it was far larger than any bird I’d ever seen—passed once, twice over the top of my tree. The third time it flew so close that the downdraft from its wings rattled the leaves. I clenched my jaw, listening harder than I’d ever listened in the pitch blackness of the night forest, willing the creature to go away, to leave me undiscovered in my tree. I thought about climbing down, but surely my clambering noise would alert it to my presence. I crept my hand toward my boot-sheath, realizing at the same time that a dagger would probably be useless against such a huge creature.
For a desperate hopeful moment, I thought it had winged off, back in the direction of camp. Then that heart-stopping shriek ripped apart the air just above my head and the creature crashed into the tree, its thrashing wings and grasping claws tearing through the branches just above me.
“Shit,” I spat, hesitated for a moment with my hand on my dagger-hilt, and then the creature slammed into the tree again, making the entire trunk of the sturdy oak groan. The creature bellowed its cry and a wave of fetid carrion-stench made me gag as I slid down off the opposite side of the branch, clinging with my arms as I blindly searched with my feet for the next branch. Wood splintered. The creature tore branches off the oak, flinging them away into the night. I heard them crashing onto the forest floor.
I found the next branch, dropped down onto it, my heart pounding in my throat. A piece of wood hit my cheek. The side of my face went instantly numb and I gasped a little as warm liquid spilled down my face. It was blood, and I knew it was blood, but I grabbed the branch and swung myself down, pointing my toes in search of the next branch. The creature didn’t shriek—it was industriously silent, the cracking and splintering of wood substitute for its terrifying cry. Panting, trying to ignore the left side of my face, I lowered myself onto the next branch, then the next, as quickly as I could, slipping down through the branches one after another.
