The Immortal Queen

by Jennifer L. Hart

  Through the Man’s Eyes

  THE WALL OF WATER SUCKS Nic down under like a rag doll, her fingertips a hairsbreadth from his own. Aiden lunges for her but the current steals her before he can grip her hand.

  He doesn’t pause to think, doesn’t brace for the impact, but allows the surge to take him, too. Wherever she’s going, he’ll follow and that’s all there is to it.

  The water tosses him off his feet. His head dips under but there is breath in his lungs. He kicks, breaks the surface, sucks in another lungful of oxygen. The sheer force of water isn’t the only threat. Century old trees have been pulled free by the deluge, and they are part of the charge. Roots stick up above the churning water with great clods of dirt still clinging to them. If Nic hasn’t drowned already, one of those could crush her with as little effort as he might swat a fly.

  The wolf is back at the threshold that separates man from beast, scrabbling to break free, to find her. The wolf can track her across the Abyss itself. Aiden grips a nearby branch and hauls himself onto one of the logs even as he tells the wolf he, the man, stands a better chance of catching her.

  Maybe there is a way to use both skills.

  For her he will ask the creature that murdered his baby brother and destroyed his life. For her he will beg the wolf whom the gods fear.

  Help me. He pours his heart and soul into the plea. Find her for me, for us.

  And he lowers his defenses.

  He half expects the wolf to seize control, the way he’s always done when Aiden can’t fight him back. But instead, his eyesight sharpens, his nose is flooded with the senses of the night and he can feel her.

  Our mate. The creature sends him an image of her along with all the sensations he associates with Nic. It’s a cornucopia of tiny details that make up a unique being.

  With the wolf’s guidance, the bond becomes a living thing. Not just a general idea of where she is, but a part of her, a part of himself that throbs and pulses with a life of its own.

  Aiden fixes those details in his mind. He breathes in, sorting through the microbes of newly disturbed soil, decaying leaves, rotting wood and fresh sap. And there, about twenty yards ahead the icy blue of her undergarments and the paleness of her skin reflects in a shaft of moonlight.

  She isn’t moving, isn’t flailing or trying to grip a handhold. Her small form is so still, lifeless. He shakes the disturbing thought away and then stands. With the wolf’s assistance, his balance is more stable, his grace preternatural.

  He leaps. One moment his feet are on one tree, then he’s in the air, a scattering of sparks drifting above the surging river. Though he is weightless he has no control over speed in his fire form.

  Hurry. The wolf is still with him, anxious as he is to reach her.

  Up ahead there’s a sharp bend in the river, a great granite outcropping with a few trees growing out of the side, the knot of their roots exposed. He senses her movement halt. Either she grabs onto the roots or her limp body is tangled within them. He’s been given a chance to catch her.

  He makes for the bank, reforming on the outermost tree. Six feet below him he sees her, eyes open, small fists clinging for dear life to an exposed root.

  “Nic,” he shouts even as he clambers down through the snarl of roots and dirt to her. “Hold on, I’m coming.”

  “Trying,” she gasps.

  “You’re doing great.” Her strength amazes him, her training making her stronger, more capable. But she is mortal and her strength is not infinite. Her lower half is still in the water. The pull of the current demands its due. It tugs her almost horizontal, greedy, insisting she continue to travel with it.

  There is an odd feeling to the water, a presence of sorts. Could this be Wardon’s work? The Master of the Waves is capable of redirecting rivers and lakes. Yet the congealing essences don’t feel malevolent so much as intent. The river must go somewhere and pity to those who have the misfortune of being in its path.

  “Almost there.” Aiden’s gaze locks on Nic as he navigates through the massive network of roots.

  “Hurry,” Nic gasps.

  The note of panic in the one word has him glancing down. She isn’t looking at him, but rather a massive tree that is on a direct collision course with her.

  His heart stops. The thing will crush her beneath its weight.

  She looks up at him, back to the doom barreling towards her and then once more at him. Her eyes meeting his, blue and bright with unshed tears. A calm seems to wash over her.

  “No!” Panic grips him at that look. Terror for her urges him to get to her, to save her, or at least to take the blow for her. The tree won’t kill him if he can just reach her. Sparks. He can come apart, then mold together grab her and they’ll drift out of the river. There is no time.

  “Aiden, I can’t.” He hears tears in her voice.

  Somehow, he’s become hopelessly trapped within the roots. He starts ripping at them, uncaring if he goes plunging into the water. “Don’t even think it. Just give me time!”

  “Aiden,” she sniffles and then, with the ring of command in her voice orders him, “Stay safe.”

  “No,” he bellows. The wolf is frantic, clawing at him, begging him to do something. But his muscles freeze in place. She can’t be doing this to him again, not now. “Don’t make me watch you die!”

  “I’m sorry,” Nic releases her grip.

  The river swallows her up.

  Among the River Sprites

  I come to with lungs burning, a stab of fire in my side and the urge to vomit. It isn’t a conscious decision to roll onto my side and expel what feels like half the river onto the solid ground beneath me. I cough and choke and wheeze, trying desperately to replace water with air. Pain makes the world around me hazy.

  Ground. There is dirt beneath my cheek. My shallow breaths bring me the rich scents of soil and the sweet decay of falling leaves. I hear sounds too. The patter of rain on leaves and somewhere not too far off, the rush of water.

  I don’t think I’m dead, no matter that I’d intended to die when I let go of that branch. I flinch away at the memory of Aiden’s devastated expression when I’d ordered him to stay safe. Though I stood a better chance in the water than against that massive tree, I still hadn’t expected to survive.

  Yet survive I did. Somehow.

  For a long while I don’t move. Maybe I can’t stay curled in the fetal position forever, but the will to get up is nowhere nearby. Slowly, I crack one eyelid and take in the world around me.

  The ground beneath my damp cheek is different than what we’d been trekking across. It feels alive, hearty. As if to illustrate my point, two squirrels scurry across the forest floor, retrieve an acorn apiece and scramble up a nearby tree. More proof that I’ve left the Desolate Realm behind me. The land feels different. Like it’s ready to yield life, not steal it away like a thief in the night.

  The leaves beneath my prone body are all rich reds and gleaming golds, fiery oranges and earthy browns. Tentatively I reach out and grasp a handful of them. They aren’t dried out and crunchy but soft, newly fallen.

  Autumn is here. Wherever here is.

  Panic grips me. Has Samhain already passed in the mortal realm? Time moves differently in Underhill. Am I too late for the gauntlet?

  “Be at ease,” a soft feminine voice chirps. “Time is still with you.”

  “What? Who?” Heedless of my battered body, I surge upward, the colorful world around me tilting precariously. I hadn’t realized anyone was nearby.

  Idiot. Who do you think pulled you from the water?

  I brace on all fours and close my eyes, praying that everything else will quit moving if I do.

  “Who are you?” I shift very slowly.

  I hear whispers, soft and low, no words discernible.

  “My name’s Nic,” I say, offering up a piece of information in the hopes it’ll coax my rescuers into doing the same.

  “We know who you are, Queen of the Shadow Throne.” It’s a differ
ent voice, masculine and richer in tone than the first. “The river brought you to us.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you for saving me.” I chance cracking an eyelid and when nothing moves, I open both eyes.

  There before me is a cluster of gray skinned beings. They have large gray eyes the color of storm clouds and hair paler than my natural blonde. All are naked and have three fingers on each hand, three toes on each bare foot with three joints apiece. Their odd coloring stands out against the brilliant hues of the forest.

  “What are you?” I rephrase. The question sounds mildly rude, but there’s no taking it back.

  A male, older in appearance than the others, his skin sagging on his bones reminiscent of a soup chicken, steps forward and offers a small bow. “We are the last of the River Sprites. King Soladin has allowed us to dwell on the banks of this river since the time of your assassination.”

  Though I think I know the answer, I want to be sure. “To which court do you belong?”

  “To yours, my queen.” It is the female this time, the one who told me that I still have time. “The river sprites were once legion across Underhill and the mortal realm. One of us for every creek and stream, for where water flows downhill, a sprite is needed to see it reach its ocean home.”

  “And yet this is all of you that are left?” I take a quick survey at the small group. Maybe a dozen of them.

  The older man nods, his expression grave. “Queen Brigit feared our numbers for only water can destroy fire. She imprisoned all those she could reach. We sought asylum with the Lord of the Land and we have sworn never to take up arms against him or his people.”

  I hear his unspoken message. That while they may have once been my subjects, their loyalties are divided.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the leader.

  “I am called Fjord. This is my granddaughter Cascadia.”

  One by one, each of the river sprites steps forward, offering me a courteous bow, One, Wade, who seems the youngest and most curious of the group, actually darts forward to examine my hand. His gray eyes are huge in his face. He flashes me a quick smile before darting back into line.

  “Come,” Fjord says. “The harvest is in and tonight is a wedding feast for my eldest son and his new bride.”

  The thought of food has my gorge rising. No way can I stomach anything in my present condition.

  “Are you injured?” It’s Cascadia, her eyes luminous, who comes forward.

  “My arm, I think it’s broken.” Normally I wouldn’t admit the weakness in front of anyone, but with my backpack gone and no way to know when or if I’ll make it back to Addy, I’ll take whatever I can get.

  “Have you asked Underhill to Heal you?” Cascadia bends down to my bare midriff to examine the injury.

  “Dare airson aisling.” I repeat the Gaelic phrase that Aiden had taught me. “I’m not so sure it’s a good idea that I use magic right now.”

  But Cascadia is shaking her head. “You misunderstand. Dare airson aisling refers to a punishment or reward for wielding magic. But Underhill will provide a healing to her inhabitants upon request. Let me show you.”

  She holds her long pale hands out over my injured arm. She chants something, words I can’t quite make out, but it seems a sort of tribal song with the chorus chanted over and over. I stare down at the ugly purple and blue bruise, the irregular shape lumps waiting for something to happen.

  When it does, it isn’t visible. No glowing light, like when Aiden’s grandmother performed a healing. No sparks of heat or flashes of color. One second I’m trying not to fall on my face in the dust and the next....

  “The pain’s gone,” I breathe easy for the first time in days. “How did you do that?”

  Her gray eyes twinkle. “I harnessed the energies of Underhill and directed them to mend your injury.”

  “Energies?” I poke at the spot where the bruising is fading to a little red patch of skin.

  Cascadia’s long silver hair billows in a phantom breeze as she nods. “They are always there, connecting all the fey and binding them to this place. Some, like myself, know how to focus them to accomplish some small healings. It’s not magic, more akin to a mortal’s faith healing.”

  “And there are no...unpleasant side effects from harnessing these energies?” If there is one thing I’ve learned about Underhill it’s that the fey realm doesn’t give without taking something in return.

  Even though my question is for Cascadia, it is Fjord who responds. “You know about the laws of thermodynamics, do you not?”

  “Vaguely,” I say, wishing I’d paid better attention in physics class. “Matter and energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed.”

  “Correct.” The wizened water sprite nods. “So long as what we do follows those laws, there is no price. It’s only when we wish to do something that defies those cosmic mandates, to either create what isn’t or destroy what is, that Underhill extracts her due.”

  That explains how Wardon had done so much magic. But then I frown. I hadn’t created or destroyed anything when I’d brought that storm to shore. I’d just rerouted it. So, what was up with the hormone overload?

  Ignorant to my shifting focus, Fjord beckons me forward. “Now come, you’ll wish to prepare for the wedding feast.”

  With my broken arm no longer my top concern, I realize that I am all but naked, standing in front of a bunch of bare-assed strangers in nothing but a lacy bra and matching boy shorts. “I don’t suppose my clothes or pack washed up with me?”

  This inquiry is received with blank looks all around.

  Head still swimming, I cast a glance back at the river. “While I appreciate your help and the generous offer, I need to rejoin my companion as soon as possible. He got caught up in the flood with me.” The grief and fear in Aiden’s eyes as I let go haunts me.

  “We will send a search party to find him,” Fjord says with absolute conviction. “Be at ease, my queen. Your journey will resume when the time is right.”

  I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. Aiden, or at least the wolf, would be able to track me as soon as he manages to escape my command. And Fjord said we are in Soladin’s lands, the same place where Bard, Harmony and Nahini were headed with the dead of the Wild Hunt. In the wake of the Healing, bone deep weariness seeps in. I’m tired of running, of chasing after something or someone. The river sprites are fey, they can’t lie. They’ve already saved my life, treated my hurts. They are my subjects. I’m as safe in their midst as I would be anywhere else in Underhill.

  “Cascadia,” Fjord holds out an arm to his granddaughter. “Bring our queen to the women’s house and see she has what she needs.”

  “Yes, grandsire.” She offers me her three fingered hand. “My queen?”

  After only a brief hesitation, I take it. The tri digit grip feels odd but reassuring. She dips her head and pulls me forward through the autumn woods. Behind us the rest of the river sprites scuttle back to whatever they’d been doing before finding me on the riverbank.

  Outside of the Hunt, I haven’t met any of my Unseelie subjects before and am curious about them. In the distance I can hear the sounds of hammering and sawing. “I’ve never seen a fey age like your grandfather before. Is that typical of your people?”

  “No.” There’s a small smile on her lips. “Grandsire gave up his gift of immortality when he wed my grandmother. She was mortal.”

  A fey married to a human? “He must have loved her very much to sacrifice his youth.”

  “Grandsire says that he gained much more than he lost. Have you found your forever one?”

  “Ummm....” Eager to change the subject I ask, “What is it you all do for Soladin?”

  “We help guide the rivers and streams to irrigate the crops and fell trees for the Seelie fey to use.” She releases my hand and points with her three-knuckled forefinger to an oversized log building and a churning waterwheel. “See there? That is the lumber mill. Every fall we remove the trees that will not survive
the coming winter and they are used to build homes and heat them through the bitter months. It is the same service we once performed for the Shadow Throne.”

  Wood for the winter. “I can see how that would be very useful.” I hesitate a moment and cautiously ask, “Why is it that you didn’t approach Wardon for sanctuary? It seems as though your gifts are more in line with his court than with Soladin’s.”

  “We did.” Cascadia says but doesn’t elaborate further.

  We walk on in silence, following a winding path away from the water. The sounds of life are all around us now, children laughing and playing. A dog barks. Another answers. The cracking of twigs beneath running feet and the creak of wheelbarrows as they are pushed down the street.

  “It’s a bountiful harvest this year,” Cascadia murmurs. “Underhill be praised.”

  “You talk of the land the way some mortals talk about a god,” It’s a casual observation on my part.

  She blinks as though I’ve surprised her. “Underhill is a deity. To host life one must possess life in abundance, have the ability to create life, whether mortal or immortal. The Lord of the Land and his fey recognize this, that in order to thrive they must not try to master Underhill, but to live in harmony with her.”

  It sounds like some serious hippy woo woo to me, but I keep my mouth shut.

  The town has the same semicircular layout as the town in the Desolate Realm. Three buildings jut out like spokes around what appears to be a marketplace. Dotted in between are smaller structures, though they are too small to be private residences. Cascadia leads me to the building on the right and several goggle-eyed girls follow us inside.

  The women’s house is a long log ranch style structure with a thatched roof and window coverings made out of what looks like a steady waterfall. From the outside there’s no way to tell what goes on within the space. Once we cross the threshold, however, I can see clearly out into the village center where food, fabrics and all sorts of other sundries are on display.