by Molly Ringle
He walked over and tapped Larkin’s shoulder.
Larkin turned, temper flashing in his face. “I am nearly ready, Highvalley. Have a modicum of patience.”
Merrick took another deep breath before answering. “Use your lucidity.”
Larkin looked yet more annoyed, but obeyed. After inhaling, his face relaxed into a thoughtful frown. He gave Merrick a nod. “I shall join you soon.”
Larkin finished his farewells with the woodstriders, promising—regardless of whether they could understand him—that if Larkin was able to return home, the royal house of Dasdemir would hear of their good deeds and be at the tribe’s service should they need anything.
Finally they left the woodstriders behind and walked with their hunter escort to the hall of Arlanuk.
As Merrick had heard, it was an awe-inspiring fortress, even at night when he could only see it by the cold-burning magical flames set in nooks in its outer walls. A massive island redwood, at least thirty feet in diameter, grew atop a rocky hill; the tree soared up to obscure the stars, while its wide roots spread down into the mountainside. Within that mound of root and hill stood a giant pair of wooden doors barred with shining bands of copper, studded with sharp obsidian, and garlanded with glowing red jewels.
Other hunters materialized out of the shadows at their approach, and the tree itself bristled in defense, the topmost roots lifting and curling, ready to strike. But at a murmur from their escort, the guards and roots retreated, the bars slid back, and the doors swung open. Firelight spilled from within, along with a scent of soil, moss, and wood smoke. Merrick and Larkin were marched inside. The doors thumped shut behind them.
The vastness of the hall startled Merrick. Thick root wove with earth and stone to make high ceilings, balconies, pillars, and overhead walkways. Hunters strode about, bristling with weapons.
There was no lush party atmosphere as there had been in Sia Fia’s. Rather than being shown to guest quarters and given a chance to rest, Merrick and Larkin were brought straight to the end of the hall, to a flat-topped rock as wide as a dining room table, with crystals jutting out its sides. Upon it sat the tallest and most broad-chested hunter he had ever seen. Others stood in long ranks at either side. A fire burned in the hearth behind the rock throne, throwing the leader’s wide antlers into menacing silhouette.
“Prince Larkin of Floriana Palace and half-fae Merrick Highvalley.” The hunter’s voice was richly timbred and lazy, though with what seemed the same type of laziness Merrick’s cat displayed right before shooting out a paw to claw your arm.
Larkin bowed, and Merrick followed suit.
“Lord Arlanuk,” Larkin said. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen you.”
“Indeed. My late wife, your sister, would have been most glad to see you awake.”
“I learned of your marriage. I trust she was happy with you.” Larkin’s voice held a polite but stony warning, the protectiveness of a brother.
“Her wish was my command.” Arlanuk echoed the same tone back. “She bore us two sons, both human. They grew up in your palace.”
“So I’m told. I was robbed of the chance to meet them.”
“Yes, my spies tell me of a story that’s been circulating of late, that your self-sacrifice was nothing of the sort. They also tell me you are on some mission to bring Ula Kana to ground. Everyone seems to know that. What you’ve been more skilled at keeping secret is how you intend to do it. It’s my curiosity on this front, and the courtesy owed a former wife-brother, that kept me from having you killed as soon as you crossed my borders. That and the lack of challenge. Humans have never stood a chance against us.”
Larkin rode right over that display of arrogance, simply answering, “Nor would we try. We are, as you’ve heard, only here to ask your assistance in containing Ula Kana.” He then proceeded into the same speech he had given Sia Fia regarding the plan of sealing the borders of the Kumiahi. He produced the obsidian blade and handed it over.
Arlanuk pondered the object, which looked tiny in his hands. The tips of his antlers tilted into view, each tip glowing a faint green. “We guarded Ula Kana in her sleep, here in this hall. We were chosen because this fortress is one of the mightiest in the island, and our hunters the strongest and most trustworthy.”
“Yet the spell broke and thereby she escaped.” Larkin managed to say it matter-of-factly, without accusation.
“When the spell broke, it was no longer our duty to keep her. The agreement lasted only as long as both you and she slept. Nonetheless, she swayed the minds of two of my hunters and stole them, and burned a hole through the roots of our sacred tree as she left.” Arlanuk leaned back upon his stone chair, stroking the line of fur along his chin. “I decidedly count her an enemy. There are few fae I could not easily defeat, but she is one who would present a challenge, and who thus irks me. I’m willing to cooperate in your plan, provided we strike the proper balance in our dealings.”
That was Merrick’s cue. He produced the silver hammer charm and held it out. “We’ve brought gifts. This charm was made by my forebear Rosamund Highvalley, whose powers I’m sure you remember. It’s imbued with magic to give you three guaranteed victories over any fae of your choice.”
Arlanuk plucked it from him with a hand muscled like the paw of a predator, but with wood-grain nails. “This prospect rather reduces any challenge. However, if my rivals know I own such a thing, that threat may be a better deterrent than the actual use of it.” He hefted it in his palm.
“In addition … ” Merrick brought out the box of perfume and the chantagram card. He opened the box, its velvet a deep green. “This is a perfume created by my sibling and me. It’s called Hunters’ Night, which falls of course during Earth Festival in late winter, a night honoring the deadly power of hunters. It smells of earth, stone, oakmoss, island redwood, cedar, vetiver, and a hint of wood smoke. People say it feels magical but eerie, like the forest at night.”
Arlanuk took the box and plucked off the cap to sniff at the spray top. He said nothing, but handed it to another hunter. No oohs and ahhs here. Hunters were clearly not the ideal perfume demographic.
Merrick swallowed. “Furthermore, my father is a poet, and wrote this in honor of the wild hunt. It’s yours to keep.” He stroked the wax stripe of the chantagram and handed the card to Arlanuk as the figure of Nye sprang up and began reciting his poem “Hunter’s Night.”
On that night, and some others too, when the wind keens,
I hear them.
So do you, don’t pretend you don’t.
Feel them too—touch the coldest stone corner on the ground floor of your house
Feel the earth tremble, the roots trying to break the foundations,
To reach you, curl cold and slimy around your feet, pull you under.
Not that they ever do
But they want to.
All the roots are alive that night
Thrumming in harmony with the swift ones
In the darkness, under the wind-tossed trees
Shivering across clearings,
A racing shadow traced in moonlight.
A cry, quickly silenced
Heat turning cold
Earth consuming blood
Souls freed to go where they will.
No one goes abroad that night
Even in our civilized towns.
We stay in and brighten our little spaces
With candelabras and porch lights and luminarias
And sing songs
As if we could scare it away,
The hunt wild and free, shooting about in the dark forest,
Arrows, claws, roots, quick and impersonal.
They could collect us, you know, at any time. They choose not to.
We smile at our weak candle flames, sing together, to remember that we are lucky
To remind ourselves of our delicacy
Our good fortune
To live a quiver, a breath, away from such power.
This w
ent over better. The hunters rumbled and exchanged satisfied nods, and adjusted their weaponry as if preening.
Arlanuk set the card on his knee. “Very well. Then here is the requirement I make of you. There must be a battle.”
Merrick’s throat tightened. Larkin said nothing.
“As I’ve noted,” Arlanuk went on, “we have little interest in the prospect of fighting you. We would win in a nonce. You would be dead; your curious adventure would be over. It would bore me. Even so, some contest is required under this roof. It is how things are done.”
How things are done. The sort of statement that passed for a complete explanation in the fae world.
“We could have you choose a champion who would fight a champion of our choice,” Arlanuk said, “but that, too, bores me. We’ve done it countless times. Here’s what is new and intriguing.” He leaned forward, studying them. “The two of you carry anger, not merely against Ula Kana and your government, but against one another.”
Merrick flicked a brief glance toward Larkin. Larkin fidgeted.
“I require that you fight each other,” Arlanuk went on. “A mere debate, if you wish. You don’t have to use anything but words.” He smiled his lazy cat smile. “Although any other technique or weapons you seize are fair play.”
Merrick turned to Larkin with eyebrows raised. Larkin looked equally flummoxed.
“I … suppose we accept that?” Merrick said.
Larkin turned to face Arlanuk again. “A better offer than we had dared hope. You are a generous host.”
“One additional rule,” Arlanuk said. “This … concoction of yours.” He flicked a hand in the direction of their chests. “Which holds you clear of our magic. It cannot be used during the battle.”
Merrick’s skin prickled. Most fae hadn’t shown any awareness of the lucidity so far. The hunters were skilled spies if they had figured it out, or perhaps Arlanuk had learned of witches’ tricks from Larkin’s sister.
But after exchanging another questioning glance, they both shrugged again. They had little choice. Debating each other, even in rage, would still be safer than fighting any faery. Besides, the magic here only enhanced existing anger. It couldn’t create the genuine wish to kill one another unless they already felt it, which Merrick didn’t. He suspected—hoped—Larkin didn’t either.
“We accept,” Larkin said.
Arlanuk rose from the rock throne to his full imposing height. “Let us begin.”
CHAPTER 36
MERRICK AND LARKIN WERE TAKEN TO ANOTHER large room in the fortress. Weapons lined the walls, and the space in the middle stood open, its dirt floor packed and smooth. Roots dangled down from the ceiling, their ends glowing yellow and green and red, casting a diffuse light.
The hunters had them set down their packs and remove their shirts, then gave them wooden buckets of water with wool cloths, with which they were told to scrub their torsos to remove any lucidity potion.
That accomplished, they walked out bare-chested to face one another in the middle of the room. Some hundred hunters, Arlanuk tallest of all, stood around the walls.
Larkin shirtless, Merrick couldn’t help noticing, was a more impressive sight than Merrick shirtless. Larkin had broad shoulders and defined muscles, the way you would expect from someone who regularly practiced fighting with an iron sword. In contrast, the immense energy Merrick burned from flying or his other random activities kept him slim and gave him a certain ropey strength, but his twiggy half-sylph physique was obvious; nothing any army would ever aim to enlist.
Larkin was also infuriatingly gorgeous, standing there bare-chested with his casual but tidy braid down his back, especially compared to Merrick with his scraggly feathers and mop of curls. Even if this wasn’t a beauty contest, he already felt unfairly disadvantaged.
Merrick turned to Arlanuk. “Is there any topic in particular we should debate?”
Arlanuk stood with arms folded. “Let us say, your mission here, how you each perceive it, and how you judge your progress thus far and your companion’s performance. The battle is over when one of you concedes victory to the other.”
“Right. So.” Merrick eyed Larkin, who gave him a polite smile. “Where to begin.”
“Where indeed.” Larkin began pacing in a slow half-circle. He lifted his voice to address the room, in the competent manner of a public figure who had given hundreds of speeches. “Earlier today I told you my opinion of the quest: that it’s sure to kill us and thereby fail. We’re out of our depth by fathoms. Only by the kindness of our hosts do we live at this moment.” Larkin nodded toward the ranks of hunters.
“You also said,” Merrick countered, “that you’d keep at it, because we have to at least try. You said you’d die a hero.”
“A failed hero, is what I said. And I would still rather not die.”
“We’ve gotten this far. We could succeed.”
“I grant you, we’ve been fortunate thus far. But Vowri’s realm? Who has ever been heard of again who’s entered there? What might she ask us to do, and what are the chances we can achieve it?”
“You’re such a cynic. We prepared for this. We’ve found ways—”
“Assuming we do survive her realm,” Larkin interrupted, “recall what comes next: the summoning of Ula Kana, in the desert. We cannot possibly expect to escape that without harm, not when she and all her allies are massed in one place with no aim other than to kill us.”
“We escaped that very thing a few hours ago.”
“Thanks to woodstriders. Remind me, Highvalley, why did they help us?”
Merrick rolled his eyes. “Because you helped one of them. But there, see? We behave honorably as we go, and we’re repaid for it. There’s balance. It works out.”
“Then we’re to assist as many animals and fae as possible in the hopes that they will come to our rescue at the moment we need it? This is your strategy?”
“It’s not my strategy, it’s good policy, is all.”
“And an insufficient one should we wish to survive, let alone triumph.”
“Fine, then, what’s your suggestion?” Merrick said.
“It was proposed at the palace that a contingent of fae would likely agree to assist in Ula Kana’s capture in exchange for the reversion of parcels of land to fae rule.”
Merrick snorted. “Which parcels? How many?”
“That had not yet been decided, as those in council barely entertained the idea, but—”
“Of course they didn’t! Listen to yourself. How would that even work?”
They took up that topic and spent what seemed like an hour on it, prowling around each other a few feet apart. It wasn’t as if they had the power to turn over those lands themselves even if the two of them did agree on a plan, but Merrick felt it vital to argue against Larkin anyway. Spoiled prince needed to hear an opposing perspective. He’d gotten his way for too long.
The chamber had grown warmer, closer, full of the smell of humid roots and metal weapons. Merrick and Larkin had begun to sweat.
“This takes money, you pampered asshole,” Merrick heard himself saying after a while. “Maybe you’ve never grown up having to worry about cash and property, but everyone else does.”
“Oh, you enlightened modern folk haven’t yet solved humanity’s dependence on money? You haven’t made the problem vanish with your magic and technology?” Larkin twinkled his fingers in mockery. “Shame. And you had been so confident in those.”
“All right, that’s another thing I hate about you. You’ve never had any faith in your own country, your own people. You say you’re doing this for us all, but you hate witches, you hate fae—you hate everything that makes Eidolonia what it is!—and don’t even get me started on how clueless you are about modern life. All you want to do is run away and never live here again. So, yeah, easy for you to say ‘hand over lands and don’t even try to mix with the fae.’ It won’t be your problem, will it.”
“I could have left, and I did not. In fact, I r
ecall it was you who advocated most strongly for running away to save your skin.”
“Then I decided I wouldn’t, because I don’t ever want to live without magic. Whereas you don’t even appreciate it.”
“And that is the trouble with you. You define yourself by your magic. What are you, even, without it? Nothing. You’ve said so yourself. A life not worth living.”
“You’re so much better? You have magic that could save lives, and you don’t even use it. You’d rather not have it!”
Larkin scoffed. “This from you? He who’s so concerned with saving lives that he regularly acts with all the forethought of an infant monkey? Who in fact awoke Ula Kana and thereby killed several people, and more each day no doubt, through his careless, unthinking use of magic?”
Heat prickled Merrick’s skin. “You know it was an accident. Believe me, I’m wishing I’d left you where I found you, stuck in your sleep. Gods, I’m starting to see why Rosamund wanted to shut you up.”
Larkin’s eyes flashed, then narrowed. “Flying your true colors now, Highvalley. Most noble indeed. I knew from the moment I saw you you’d be no better than she.”
“Ha, but guess what? We’re doing her plan now. Maybe she was actually pretty smart. You have some brighter idea instead?”
“Why yes, I do: a land reversion deal.”
“Ugh.” Merrick snarled the sound, pivoting away. “You are fucking hopeless.”
“I quite agree. ’Tis hopeless, you and I, working together. A terrible prospect from the start.”
“You’re conceding victory, then?”
“Hardly. You may do so, however, if you tire of our debate.”
Merrick spread his arms. “How about you force me? You could, if you wanted. Afraid to use your powers?”
Larkin paused only a fraction of a second in his pacing.
Something flipped in the depth of Merrick’s ears. The ground rocked. The root-lights on the ceiling whirled backward. His rear smacked against the dirt floor, and he flung a hand down to stop from tumbling onto his back.
Laughter rippled among the hunters.
It was a simple spell, a brief loss of balance. Effective as humiliation, though.
