Faerie

by Jacobs Delle

  “Let’s go,” Philippe whispered when the being disappeared from their sight, and took her hand.

  “Go where?”

  “Follow the light. It has to lead out.”

  She considered saying there was no light, but decided just to let him lead the way. After all, going back down to the river didn’t seem very appealing.

  As long as she continued to follow him, she could see what seemed to be a path through the rock, and it looked very much like a cave, uneven to the point where from time to time they had to climb or descend, sometimes squeezing through narrow slits to broader spaces beyond. But looking around, she saw only the glow she could usually see in the dark. He continued to follow his light in full certainty that it was there.

  “What made you call that thing Fulk?” he asked as he walked along his path, taking a moment now and then to run a hand over alabaster spikes of rock that seemed to appear from nowhere when he touched them.

  “Have you seen the hilt of Fulk’s sword?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I have. That was Fulk’s sword.”

  “Haps a similar one.”

  “I would know that snake on the hilt anywhere.”

  “But that was no man. The thing had no face. And it was commanding those bone demons.”

  “Aye. You called it a sorcerer, but it seems more like a demon.”

  “What if it is both? A demon sorcerer?”

  “And a man as well? A man who is perhaps not a man at all?”

  “I’ll wager we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Philippe kept on walking through the cave along a path she could not see. But she followed in silence, not knowing what else to do. Or what had become of the simple, orderly world she had wanted to escape only weeks ago.

  “How do you do that thing with the arrows?” Philippe asked as he turned to help her climb over jumbled rock that had appeared from nowhere, but that he obviously saw as clearly as if the cave were really a cave. Something that puzzled her even more, since she knew for a certainty that caves were black as midnight.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I never did it before. I just wanted a weapon, and they came.”

  “How did you guide the arrows I shot?”

  “I’ve always been able to guide them, when I chose. I sing to them in my mind and they heed me.”

  “And how do you speak to me without sound?”

  “You do the same to me. How do you do it?”

  “It is something you do, not me. How do you do it? What are you?”

  Leonie glowered. He followed a path through stone and he thought she was strange? Yet he did not even believe that she could not see what he saw. What was the point in answering him?

  “And how do you pass through walls?”

  “I cannot.”

  “I saw you.”

  “You think you saw that. You saw my appearance change so that you could not tell the difference between me and the wall. It’s called fading.”

  “By whom, Leonie? Who calls it fading?”

  She clamped her mouth closed to make sure she said no more. He would not believe her anyway. For what seemed like hours they roamed through the rock, and she patiently tolerated his decisions to go this way or that when there clearly was no way at all, for in spite of firm logic, he did keep moving forward.

  He stopped and pointed at something somewhat above their heads. “There,” he announced.

  “Where?”

  “I thought you had such excellent sight. Why can’t you see anything? Up there. That’s the source of the light. We’ll have to climb, but it doesn’t look hard.”

  She thought about suggesting that light from that location could not possibly have been bending around all the curves and ups and downs they had taken. On the other hand, he could invade her dreams, read her thoughts, hear things no one else could. And somehow he had stopped the beam of colored lightning from the sorcerer that had immobilized and nearly suffocated her. Why not a little thing like bending light?

  Releasing a sigh that sounded more impatient than she had meant, she followed him, climbing up a dark slope, jagged rock pressing into her hands and knees. To her, it was like climbing through muddy water. Above her, he stopped and held out a hand to help her up to his level. With a wan smile, she allowed the assist.

  She stood beside him, looking again at sunlight and earth.

  Before them stretched a broad, green valley, enclosed by high hills. A gentle beck wandered pleasantly down its length and disappeared into the distance. Masses of trees bloomed in soft pink and white, and sometimes yellow. Fields of wild poppies sprinkled red blotches through summer green grass, spiked with tall plumes of purple lupine, as if it were spring and summer at the same time.

  “I don’t think we’re in England anymore,” he said, his voice sounding as dry as her throat felt.

  Leonie took a deep breath. “I don’t think we’re even in September anymore.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “WAIT THERE. I want to look around,” Philippe said as he stepped into the bright day.

  Leonie smirked and followed him anyway, not being thrilled by the possibility of being trapped inside solid rock if he left her behind. She watched the hint of a sneer develop on his lips and decided to ignore that too. But she thought she ought to check to see if the cave was still there.

  She glanced back and saw exactly what she expected: no sign of the opening they had just passed through. She tugged on Philippe’s arm and pointed. He looked back too.

  “Am I right?” she asked. “No cave?”

  He frowned. “It has to be there.”

  “But it’s not.”

  His scowl deepened, then he shrugged. “We have to find our way back to Bosewood. Rufus has come. There could be trouble with Fulk and Durham, and he needs our information.”

  “Where are we?”

  Philippe studied the distant hills and scanned over the beautiful valley. He squinted as he looked into the bright sky. Leonie did the same, and she could not pick out the sun’s location. The sky was not blue, but simply pale, and light seemed to ooze from everywhere. She glanced at their feet and saw no shadows. For a moment she wondered if they were no longer alive but did not know it.

  Or if they’d found the Summer Land.

  If so, she’d best not mention it. He still thought her a witch. She could only guess what he thought about this place. But he was the one who had led them to it, not her—even though he’d probably blame her anyway.

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” he replied. “We were north and a bit east of Bosewood when I found you, but I don’t know what river we saw. We don’t know what direction we traveled underground, but we entered the cave before noon. It must be midafternoon now. The valley looks too flat to be in the mountains or foothills, so we must be east or south of them, but we could be either east or west of Bosewood. We know Alnwick is east, near the sea, so we’ll go in that direction.”

  But without the sun for reference, he had no way to tell which direction was east. He seemed remarkably reluctant to admit he didn’t know. Leonie thought she’d let things go on in whatever way they went on. They had worse problems right now.

  She just hoped they weren’t within Durham’s boundaries, and she suspected he worried about it too.

  Philippe picked his way down the slope until they reached a little rivulet that flowed from the high hills to join the beck below. Although the valley had seemed broad and shallow, as they went farther into it, it deepened and became more rounded like a bowl, and the hills surrounding it became more like steep-sided mountains with bare, dark, rocky slopes jutting toward the sky. The grass was fresh, as on a recently rainy early summer day. Lush meadows scattered along the beck, which had joined another and widened. Leonie spotted cattle in one direction, and in another, odd, toylike ponies, unlike any she had seen in the northern country, with gracefully curved and arched backs and necks, their manes and tails either black or a deeper, richer gold th
an their coats. Black-faced sheep thickly dotted one slope. She saw a shimmering trout leap in the wider brook, which bounced over mossy rocks and was shaded by trees with convoluted branches ending in balls of leaves, not like any she had seen at Bosewood or Brodin or anywhere else.

  But no people. The only sign of people, in fact, were the herd animals, which surely must have owners.

  As the valley leveled out, Philippe knelt beside the brook and scooped water into his hand. He smelled it. Then he tasted it. “Fresh, I think,” he said. “The animals haven’t died, and we have nothing else to drink. I think we’re safe here.”

  “I suppose we can’t be sure of that, either,” she replied, and knelt beside him to taste the water, which was cool and sweet.

  “Why are those things after you, Leonie?”

  She shook her head, frowning. “I don’t know. But the sword in that fiend’s hand was Fulk’s. When he came courting at Brodin Castle, I saw the hilt. It had a silver snake that coiled about the grip. The snake’s head formed the pommel and had ruby eyes. Like the snake in the solar that had gleaming red eyes.”

  “The snake again.”

  Leonie pulled her lips into a pout as she studied the grass at her feet. Her tangled hair fell in front of her eyes. How unappealing she must look to him. She had run for miles until her braid had fallen, then fought a gruesome battle, only to run more and jump over a cliff into a raging river. Her hair had dried now and was matted and tangled like the roots of a witch hazel.

  She jutted her chin. “I care not if you don’t believe me.”

  “Yesterday, I would have believed nothing you have told me. Today I think there is nothing past believing.”

  “Is there?” She stood and shook out her rumpled, torn kirtle, realizing she could not even remember what had happened to her cloak. With a disgusted snort, she strode off, headed downstream.

  He caught up quickly. She thought it was wise of him that he said nothing more.

  Beyond the beck, on the far side, Leonie spotted straight, level lines that contrasted with the hillside behind them. Straight lines meant people. As they progressed, the lines brightened and formed squared shapes, low and long, lighter in color than the hillside beyond it. “That looks like a house.”

  “What?” He frowned in the direction she pointed.

  Leonie leaped over the beck and hiked across the meadow. The house took shape, with sleek round stone columns supporting a reddish roof she thought might be some kind of slate, though slate would be too heavy for such a shallow slope. Brilliant garden colors decorated the surrounding terrain, and she began to see the outlines of a terrace.

  Now Philippe could see it too, for his pace quickened. “I’ll go ahead. You don’t know who the people might be.”

  Not like any she had known, she suspected. He was more likely than she to be astounded at what they would find. But she ignored his order and strode along beside him, mostly because even with her long legs, she could not outpace him.

  The closer they drew to the building, the odder it became. It ceased being white or pale. Bright colors of crimson and gold with touches of blue, green, and darker colors formed angular designs on the walls. The terrace in front of the house was topped by an arbor, with vines growing over it thick enough to produce shade, and heavy bunches of grapes hung all about. At least she thought they were grapes, since she had never actually seen any growing. Around the terrace grew small trees with shiny, bright green leaves, with fruits in shades of gold, red, yellow, and green weighing down the branches.

  Beyond the round columns, a table covered in a white cloth stood in the shade of the vines. The heady aroma of freshly cooked pork hit her nostrils, and sharp pangs of hunger struck her belly, reminding her she had not eaten since the night before.

  “I wonder who lives here?” she said. Never had she seen such a house, nor such a bountiful display of foods she did not recognize.

  “You might ask him,” Philippe replied.

  Leonie startled as she turned, catching sight of a solemn, bald-pated, dark-haired man, wearing a long, belted tunic of white. She was certain he had not been standing there before.

  And he was almost not there now. She could see the outline of the laden table through him. It was almost as if the very aroma from the still sizzling meats wafted through him.

  The man bowed and swept his hand before him to show them welcome. Then Leonie saw others like him, many men, but one face repeated, identical in every detail, including the simple swirling embroidery around the necks of their tunics.

  “Is this your home?” she asked the man.

  Instead of answering, he again bowed and repeated the gesture of welcome, showing them to a long, wide, low couch that reclined before the table.

  Two women as ethereal as the men appeared, and they took her bow and empty quiver, which they set aside in an alcove in a frescoed wall. They took her hands and raised them over her head, then pulled her ragged, stained garments up and off. Their deft hands unwound her bound hose and removed them and her tattered shoes.

  She glanced at Philippe and saw that two men had also stripped him bare. His sword and mail were set in an alcove of their own. She winced at the sight of so many angry red imprints from his mail on his chest and back. He turned his back to her.

  “I wonder if my husband is shy?” she asked. “He seems afraid of showing his body to his wife.”

  Philippe pivoted at his waist and let his eyes scan her nude body from hair to toe. His eyes brightened to match the beginning of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Haps you would not want to see it just now.”

  “I know what you have, Philippe le Peregrine. I suspect it is right now at its best.”

  “I’m suspect my body thinks yours is at its best.”

  Her heart took a leap. She ought to know better, yet she couldn’t help reveling in his words.

  Other ghostly figures appeared, bearing folded white garments in their hands, and these were silently slipped over the heads of their amazed guests. Golden cords fastened these soft white tunics, which were exactly like those of the servants, save for the richer embroidery of intertwined gold horses galloping in line against a purple background, bordered in gold along the neck openings and sleeves.

  “It’s exquisite,” she said, fingering the needlework. “I never thought of using the horse motif in my embroidery.” She ran her hands over the fabric, wondering how any cloth could ever be made so soft, and for that matter, how people who were as transparent as water might carry it. The smoothness caressed her skin—so much better than her rough, torn kirtle that had survived a dunking and swim in icy water, then grown stiff and chafing as it dried. Her delight bubbled out in laughter, and looking back at Philippe, she saw a wide smile, something that was as rare as dragon’s eggs. Her anger melted away as if it had never existed.

  “Haps they are not real,” Philippe said.

  “They could be ghosts.”

  “But they mean to serve us.”

  She nodded. “Haps we are dreaming.”

  Philippe chuckled. “We are getting very good with our dreaming, wife.”

  A pleasant flush came over her as she remembered.

  She followed the translucent servant’s motions to recline on the odd couch, which had its head at the food-laden table. She snickered softly. “Whatever might not be real about this place, the food looks tasty enough.”

  Philippe took a bite of a rich white meat while Leonie savored sweet yellow-red-colored fruit that came apart in sections and squirted juice as she bit into it. Out of curiosity, she squeezed a section over a slab of the tender cooked meat, and as she bit into it, she laughed delightedly at the marvelous combination. She held out a bite to Philippe, and he took it from her fingers with his mouth, letting his tongue graze her fingertips. He grinned, his honey-brown eyes sparkling.

  Leonie let her gaze wander around the open terrace, noting a light breeze stirring the grape leaves, and watched as the ghostly servants walked about
, filling gold goblets with red wine that had no bitterness, only a rich, sweet warmth. Platter after platter appeared before them. Philippe pulled a grape from a dark purple bunch and popped it into his mouth. His eyes widened, accompanying the hint of a smile. He plucked another and brought it to her lips.

  Leonie sank her teeth into the delicate flesh of the grape, and her mouth filled with the most heavenly taste, rich and sweet. She giggled.

  “What is different about it?” he asked.

  “It’s good?”

  “No seeds.”

  “Oh. I have never eaten a grape before.”

  “Then try this.” He picked up a dark red fruit with a skin that looked like old leather, and peeled it. “Eat the seeds.”

  How peculiar. The seed glistened like a dark ruby. The delicate taste swarmed through her mouth. She hummed in ecstasy.

  “A pomegranate,” he told her.

  “I have heard of them. But they do not grow here, do they?”

  “I am not sure where we are,” he replied.

  “I have never seen a house like this.”

  “I have, somewhat. In Tuscany and Rome. In Sicily.”

  “And pomegranates? Grapevines?”

  “In Catalonia too.”

  “You have been many places.”

  She watched his eyes lose their spark of mischief and become sadly regretful. “Aye.”

  “It’s why they call you the Peregrine.”

  He looked down at the silver plate and said nothing.

  “Sometimes I think there is much you do not tell me about yourself.”

  “Aye.” He let out a sigh. Then once again he cocked his head to eye her from an odd angle, and he laughed. “Another time, haps,” he said. “Let us have this dream together. It is too good to waste.” He leaned to her and turned her face to meet his kiss, and his fingertips skimmed her cheek. Leonie lost herself in the ripple of sexual delight that ran through her body.

  He leaned back again. “Aye, let’s enjoy this dream while we have it.”

  They were behaving like giddy, silly lovers. He didn’t love her, she knew. But that was not his fault. Whatever might come, what was wrong with simply enjoying this experience together?