Faerie Quest: A Feyland Urban Fantasy Tale (The Celtic Fey Book 3)

by Roz Marshall

  The witch grunted. "Tomorrow, then. But now, we shall eat." The witch's bony fingers reached towards a pearlescent bowl that was brim-full of toasted mallow-root.

  Corinne became painfully aware of how hungry she was and how long it had been since she'd eaten, as mouth-watering aromas rose from the laden tables of the faerie buffet. But Elphin's warnings about eating and drinking in Feyland rang through her brain and stilled her hand. 'You should not eat or drink anything here, or you may not be able to return to your own world.'

  And she meant to return to Scotland—somehow—for she had a horse to rescue, and a teenage rival to sort out. So she must ignore the ache in her belly and have patience that she would eventually escape this evil hag.

  Other members of the faerie court pressed around them, selecting tasty delicacies from the golden plates on the silver tables, and separating her from the witch. Corinne's spirits leapt at being removed from the crone's toxic presence, but she was glued to the spot, unable to pull her eyes from the culinary splendours of the feast before her. Rainbow-hued sweetmeats vied for her attention with honeyed rose-hips and sugar-glazed whortleberries.

  A touch on her elbow distracted her momentarily, as a graceful attendant in a cobweb-thin gown proffered a goblet of glittering nectar. Corinne shook her head at the naiad, but the smell of the golden liquid was so sweet it made her light-headed, and she found her fingers creeping involuntarily towards a particularly delicious-looking pile of sugared jellies that reminded her of Turkish Delight and looked so sweet and…

  CHAPTER 5

  "GOOD DAY, MY lady." A kindly-looking man with a long grey beard that reminded her of Gandalf—wrong story, Corinne—stepped between Corinne and the table. "I would not recommend the sweetmeats." He gave her a knowing look. "They can have long-lasting effects."

  It was like he'd broken a spell.

  Corinne's brain cleared, and she smiled up at him. "Thanks."

  Some distance away—for they had somehow moved away from the buffet tables—the witch watched them, eyelids hooded and bony shoulders hunched. Corinne's gaze swivelled between the hag and the old man. It was like—it's like the witch is scared of him.

  A spark of hope ignited in her belly. "Can you help me, sir? Do you know how I can escape the witch? She wants me to work for her."

  "Did you agree to work for her?" The wizard's voice was deep and resonant, like it emanated from an ancient oak tree or an underground cavern.

  "No."

  "Did you accept a quest from her?"

  Corinne chewed her lip. Had she? "I don't think so."

  "Did you eat or drink anything in her abode?" His bushy eyebrows drew together. "Or tell her your real name?"

  She shook her head.

  His forehead cleared and his mouth stretched into a smile. "If that is the case, then she has no hold over you. You may return to your life."

  "Thank you. I do need to get home. But—" she cast her eyes around the clearing. Where was the nearest mushroom ring? And if she was really in the faerie realm and no longer in the game, would she even be able to log out? "—But I'm not sure I know how. Are you able help me?"

  The old man inclined his head gravely. "I can. Follow me."

  He led her to the far side of the clearing, to the lines of horses that rested quietly or munched dried grasses away from the hubbub of the court.

  Moments later, she was astride a magnificent pewter-coloured beast and trotting beside the wizard away from the Seelie court. Am I dreaming again?

  "No, young Corinne."

  She hadn't meant to speak that thought aloud. But how does he know my name?

  "I know many things, my lady. But you must return home. And we must hurry." He urged his black stallion into a canter and her horse leaped to follow.

  It was nothing like riding Ghost—or Midnight—but it was exhilarating none the less. When they'd been riding the unicorn to escape the Wild Hunt, although bareback and not fully in control, she'd felt an absolute trust that her mount would keep her safe and do everything in his power to elude their pursuers.

  She felt none of that with this horse. Yes, she had a saddle to sit on and a bridle to steer with, but the notion of control was just that—a notion. As the elven steed soared over streams, dodged around boulders or galloped under overhanging branches, Corinne had to duck and weave, gripping hard with both legs and testing her balance to the limits just to stay on its back.

  Like some wild fairground ride, the wizard led her up hill and down dale at breakneck pace until, eventually, they reached a familiar hill with a crown of silvery rowan trees. The horses slowed to a walk.

  Chessaig. Or the faerie version of Chessaig, at least. The place where she'd caught a glimpse of the mysterious minstrel. The place where the unicorn had disappeared, reappearing in real life as a horse—Ghost—in the centre of the standing stone circle on the hill near to her house. What was it Elphin had said about stone circles? Something about them being a conduit between worlds? That was another legend she'd need to look up.

  The old man dismounted, and held out a hand to help her down from her horse.

  "Thanks," she said as she landed on the ground beside him, breathing hard and red in the face.

  But the old man showed no sign of their hard ride. He pointed into the circle of trees, his face serene and his voice steady. "You can pass through to your home here." His mouth drew horizontal. "And you need not visit the Realm again."

  That thought had some appeal. But she still had an unfinished task in Feyland. "I wish I needn't. But I have to find my friend Elphin. I was looking for him when the witch kidnapped me. He was wounded—dead, maybe. I want to find out what happened to him."

  The old man caught her gaze, his eyes burning right into her very soul. Then with an imperceptible nod, he swirled his cloak, pointing his staff at the rolling hills and emerald forests of the faerie realm in the vista before them. "The one you seek is bound, but not by chains. He can escape, simply by falling. You may find him, but only if you truly see." As the arc of his arm stilled, he was pointing directly at her. At her heart.

  He was talking in riddles. But it reminded her of her initial quest in Feyland: 'Only the pure can see the pure, only the pure will find him. Only with love will love be shown, only by love unbind him.'

  The goblin who gave her that quest had never given her another, even though she'd tamed the unicorn. Perhaps she'd not properly completed it? Perhaps it has something to do with Elphin? "So where will I find him? Or where should I look?"

  The wizard let out a long breath. "When you next come visit the Realm, meet me here. I will investigate his fate and tell you more."

  "Thank you—What's your name again?"

  He inclined his head. "Myrddin."

  "Thank you, Myrddin." She smiled at him. "Thank you for—"

  "Do not thank me, young Corinne. Just return to your life, and fulfil your destiny."

  Destiny? That sounded very grand. She swallowed, then straightened her shoulders. "Okay. Th—" No. She smiled her thanks instead, then stepped carefully through the long grass into the ring of trees. "See you soon."

  CHAPTER 6

  CORINNE SNUCK THROUGH the door of the sim café. Good. There was nobody at the reception desk. Tip-toeing through the back to the gaming section, she cautiously opened the door of the booth she'd been renting, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was unoccupied.

  Lying in the sim chair were the gaming gloves and visor she'd been wearing. Empty, thankfully. That would just have been weird, if her body had been there too. Or a version of it. Like some crazy time travel story gone wrong.

  So when Myrddin had returned her through the stones, she must somehow have been logged out of the game so she could appear at Chessaig, in real life. That was good to know.

  Hanging the helmet on its hook and tidying the gloves onto their shelf, she turned to leave—noisily, like she was meant to be there, and had never left.

  After the fracas at the original sim café with th
e bow and arrow, Corinne hadn't dared go back. But if she'd blotted her copybook at this new café, she'd have swiftly been running out of options to play Feyland. There were only so many places to rent VR kit in rural Scotland.

  -::-

  "And this herb for a healing salve?" Elphin picked up a small wicker basket.

  Urisk smiled, his tiny slab-shaped teeth glittering in the lamp-light of his cave. "You learn fast." He pointed a long finger at the place where Cailleach's wolf had torn at Elphin's neck. "I used it on your wound. So you have evidence it works."

  Elphin nodded slowly, then motioned at the next basket on the stone shelf. It was overflowing with thin green leaves. "I do not know this one?"

  "Mare's tail, some call it. Stops bleeding. And heals ulcers."

  Mare's tail. Elphin swallowed, remembering his lovely Corinne, and how her face had softened when she looked at the unicorn. He had not seen her since the wolf attack, and he missed her sweet face.

  When we are finished, he thought, I will go to Faerie Hill. He knew she liked to visit the mortal-world hill that lay at the other side of the portal. He had seen her before, standing between the great granite stones. Perhaps I will catch a glimpse of her. Just one glimpse. That would be enough.

  Taking a deep breath, he brought himself back to the present and focussed on the goat-man and the next basket of herbs. Later.

  -::-

  Yawning, Corinne pulled her hoodie over her chestnut locks, and made her way through the drizzle and up to the back field.

  She felt like she hadn't slept last night. Probably because she hadn't, once she'd woken from the dream—the nightmare—that left her sitting bolt upright in bed, breathing hard, a cold sweat prickling her skin.

  In her dream, a ghostly army of foul creatures that reminded her of the worst monsters in Game of Thrones advanced across a snowy plain. In the vanguard, Cailleach rode on a huge white wolf, her face somehow smoother, her clothes brighter and richer. In her hand, a blue sword gleamed with ephemeral fire, and her eyes burned malignantly like white-hot coals.

  Facing them, in the lee of a thicket of trees atop a hill that reminded her of Chessaig, was a lone archer on a white horse. Corinne.

  As the vile host marched closer, the braying of their war-horns reached her ears, the discordant klaxons putting her teeth on edge like vuvuzelas at a football game. She could smell the witch's troops too; the stench of putrefying flesh acting like a weapon—a frontal assault on their enemies' nostrils before the first sword had swung or the first arrow had flown.

  And then, suddenly and inexplicably, as was the way in dreams, the ghastly army surrounded her.

  Ghost reared high in the air, hooves flailing at the blue hag as Corinne desperately tried to get an arrow into her foe.

  But they were overwhelmed; Ghost pulled to the ground and Corinne dragged from his back and buried under a pile of stinking monsters; unable to breathe and pinned immobile in some demonic version of a rugby scrum.

  She had awoken in a panic, clawing at her bedclothes, breath rasping in her chest.

  Remembering it now, hours later, her pulse throbbed and her skin turned clammy. Yet again, she found herself hoping that this dream wouldn't come true; that she had just had a terrible nightmare based on her experience in the witch's cave on Schiehallion. Surely that was all it was?

  Reaching the gate of the geldings' field, she took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders, willing herself to think of something nice. Visiting Ghost this afternoon. That should be a pleasant experience. She'd really missed him, and hoped he was happy at the NAPC; that they were looking after him properly. She'd find out later.

  Another huge yawn left her blinking myopically at the horses grazing contentedly on the gentle slope of the meadow. But there was something wrong.

  She rubbed her eyes, and counted again. Oh no! There was a horse missing. And not just any horse.

  Sonya's.

  Spinning round, she flew back to the farm, heedless of the rain that soaked her face or the mud that splashed her jeans. She needed to tell Phemie. They needed to call the police!

  CHAPTER 7

  PHEMIE GRITTED HER teeth and twisted the spanner, trying to loosen the wheel nut on her quad bike. But the stubborn thing just wouldn't move. With a growl, she pushed the tool into the pocket of her Barbour, and stomped from the byre into the tool-shed. But before she had time to find her can of spray oil, she heard running feet splashing on the cobbles and Corinne frantically calling her name.

  She poked her head round the door.

  "There you are!" The girl slid to a halt and put her hands on her knees, face pink and breathing hard. "We need to call the police," she gasped.

  Phemie's insides turned to ice. What now?

  "Maestro's been stolen. I was up doing the morning field check and he's not there."

  Phemie breathed a sigh of relief. "No, it's okay. He's no' stolen. He went away this morning."

  "Away? Has Sonya sold him?"

  Twisting her mouth, Phemie debated whether to put a gloss on it or tell the truth. But the girl was supposed to be learning about farming, and farming was full of harsh realities. "Don't think so. I think he's away the Crow Road."

  "The Crow Road?"

  "It's a Glasgow expression. Or a book by Iain Banks. One o' my favourites, actually." She sucked air through her teeth.

  Understanding began to flicker on the girl's face. "You mean… he's dead?"

  "Mebbe. I don't know for sure. But he might be. He got taken away in the lorry first thing this morning."

  Corinne's mouth opened, and then closed again. Her shoulders sagged. "Poor Maestro." Then her expression brightened. "But he could have been sold."

  "Eh, mebbe." Phemie scratched her ear. "It's just mighty quick"

  "He could've gone to a dealer."

  "Aye, true." That was actually a possibility. "Maybe she's doing a swap. Some dealers will do that."

  The girl looked more cheerful at that suggestion, and Phemie felt happier too. Even hard-hearted farmers could have a soft spot where animals were concerned.

  -::-

  The girl jumped into Phemie's land-rover, pulling her hoodie down from where it had covered her chestnut hair against the afternoon drizzle.

  "Ready?" Phemie asked, turning the key and waiting while the old engine shuddered itself into life.

  "Yeah." Corinne's eyes glittered with excitement. "Thanks for taking me. Can't wait to see him again."

  Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the white-fenced driveway of the NAPC. In paddocks either side of the road, an assortment of animals grazed contentedly, or sheltered from the weather under leafy trees. Donkeys, ponies, goats—even a llama.

  Phemie smiled to herself. Some time back, there'd been a farmer in the Highlands breeding llamas for wool. And meat. Perhaps this one had been lucky, and escaped the butchers' block.

  The main yard had the feel of an old dairy farm—whitewashed buildings, stone byres, corrugated iron roofs. But there were officious green signs everywhere, with gold-leaf lettering directing visitors to 'reception' or 'education centre' or 'fundraising'.

  Remembering Mr Ahearn's words about selling Ghost to 'raise funds', a chilly finger ran down Phemie's spine. This place had the air of a business, not a charity. As if the animals were a secondary concern.

  There was a similar corporate feel to the Reception area—green, gold and white. Clinical.

  But not very efficient. It took several minutes before someone even acknowledged their presence, and a dozen more before they were escorted to a large byre at the back of the farm. Corinne followed the green-overalled groom, practically skipping with excitement.

  Inside, the barn had been converted to contain internal stables; wooden partitions and metal grilles separating one horse from another. On each stable door a metal mount held an index card with the horse's name and other details.

  Their escort—Gavin, according to his badge—obviously didn't know the inmates very well, as he check
ed each nameplate they passed, brown hair flopping into his eyes as he did so.

  Four stables down, they found Ghost.

  He was fine, whickering delightedly when he spotted Corinne, and pushing his nose against the bars at the front of his stable. But the bars were too narrow for him to reach through. Like being in prison.

  Corinne was obviously having similar thoughts; trying to put a brave face on it as she scratched his forehead and stroked his muzzle. But her shoulders tightened and the shadows under her cheekbones became more pronounced. "Can I go in and see him?" she asked Gavin, a hopeful lilt in her voice.

  "Sorry, hen, no can do." The boy—for he couldn't have been much older than Corinne—stuck his hands in his pockets and scuffed a boot along the floor. "It's the rules. Infection control, ken?"

  For the first time, Phemie witnessed the effect that Corinne had on the male of the species. Her wide eyes, heart-shaped face and thick chestnut hair were obviously disconcerting this street-wise youth. A tell-tale tinge of pink crept up his neck, even as he darted a covert glance at the object of his interest.

  But Corinne was oblivious; her attention focussed on Ghost. "Does he get out? To the field, I mean?"

  "Aye, they all get out for an hour in the morning. While we muck out, ken?" From somewhere, Gavin must've found some courage, for he stood taller and jutted his chin. "S'me that looks after this one."

  That earned him a sideways look from Corinne, who was obviously having the same thoughts as Phemie. You look after him, but you don't know his name?

  A couple of quick steps took Corinne across to the opposite stable, which housed a hairy gypsy cob. "Do you do this one too?"

  "Aye."

  "How long's she been here?"

  Gavin fidgeted with an ear stud. "A while. But she's a grumpy one. Watch out for the teeth."

  Pulling her fingers out of the way, Corinne checked the card on the door. "Gwyllin." She gave him a pointed look. Moving on to the next stable, she peered through the bars at a small roan pony. "What's this one called?"