“You are eladrin?” she said.
Menduarthis gave her a sly smile. “Among other things.”
“What does that mean?”
Menduarthis chuckled, but he had a dangerous glint in his eye. “And what are you? Hmm?”
“Human,” said Hweilan. “Though I have elf blood through my mother.”
Menduarthis sat up straight, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back, almost as if in meditation. A breeze came from somewhere behind her, tossing her hair in her face and causing the fire to lie low. But when she turned, there was no gap or tear in the walls. Just the wooden tent frame and wall of animal skin.
When she turned back around, Menduarthis had not moved, but he breathed in deep through his nostrils.
“Ah,’ he said, and looked down at her. “Human with some elf blood, she says. True enough. True enough. But what else runs in your veins? Hmm?”
“You never answered my question.”
“I didn’t come to answer your questions, girl. I came to fetch you. You have an audience. With the queen.”
“Queen? There are no queens in the Giantspires.”
“Oh, you are a sharp one. Now, get dressed or I’ll have to take you in your blankets, and that is hardly a way to make a good first impression.”
“Where are my clothes?”
He leaned back, opened the door just enough to reach one hand out, then brought it back inside holding a thick bundle of cloth tied crossways with a cord.
“Your clothes, I’m afraid, are gone.” He glanced at Nikle. “Those rags you had on were not suitable for an audience with the queen.”
“They were no worse than what you’re wearing.”
Menduarthis chuckled. “Yes, but I’m a loyal subject. You? Well, you were found running with that sivat, so I suggest you wear what you’re told and mind your manners. At the moment, you’re a guest, but you can join your little elf friend if you aren’t careful.”
“Where is Lendri?”
“Taken care of.”
Hweilan took the bundle and undid the knot of cord. Opening it, she found fine linen smallclothes, a shirt of the same fibrous material as the shift she was wearing, a leather belt, and trousers and a coat that seemed to be made of swiftstag skin. Soft rabbit fur lined the coat. Nothing fancy, but all very well made.
Nikle rattled off something in his own language, and Menduarthis responded in kind. The little hunter poked his head outside, spoke to someone out there, then reached out and came back in holding a large sack. Menduarthis was watching her intently, an amused glint in his eye.
“What is it?” said Hweilan.
“Nikle has a gift for you,” said Menduarthis.
She looked at the sack. As Nikle moved back to sit beside the fire, she could hear something rattling inside. “What kind of gift?”
Menduarthis said something to Nikle. The little hunter smiled and emptied the sack beside Hweilan.
Five skulls rattled out. Dark brown and glistening wet, bits of tissue and blood still clinging to them. The stench of death caught in the warm air of the fire and filled the tent, making Hweilan’s stomach clench.
Nikle spread his hands over the gift and said something.
Menduarthis translated. “Nikle wishes to tell you that those Nar who hunted you will trouble you no more. Whatever grievance they had against you died with them. Though in truth, I do believe that your elf friend killed two of them, and a good many more got away—including that Frost Folk brute and that … whatever it was.”
She looked down at the grisly pile. “What am I supposed to do with them?”
Menduarthis threw back his head and laughed. “Nikle here would be happy to treat and paint them for you. You can use them to adorn your … well, wherever you might end up. But that is for another day.”
He said something to Nikle, and the little hunter began tossing the skulls back in the sack.
“I’ll give you a moment to dress,” said Menduarthis. “A quick moment. We must be off. Not wise to keep the queen waiting.”
Menduarthis waved to Nikle, and they turned to leave.
“Where are my things?” said Hweilan. “My bone whistle? My father’s bow?”
“I told you,” Menduarthis said over his shoulder, “you had to give those up. Don’t worry. They’re in safe keeping. But until we’re sure you aren’t going to cause any trouble, I’ll just keep them safe.”
“I am not going anywhere without them.”
“I could make you come.”
“And I could make that very difficult for you.”
Menduarthis stared at her a long time, those pupilless eyes seeming to weigh her. Finally, the left side of his mouth curled up in a grin. “You could, I think. Hmm. Well, as much as I might enjoy that, our time is short. Shall we compromise?”
“What?”
He reached inside a pocket sewn on the inside of his coat and pulled out her kishkoman. “I give you back your kishkoman, and you come along with no trouble.”
“How … how do you know what that is?”
“Let’s just say it isn’t the first I’ve seen.”
He tossed it to her, and she caught it.
“Know this,” said Menduarthis. “Blow it all you like. No one here will answer. You’ll only annoy the locals, and I don’t recommend that. Try anything with the pointy end, and you’ll never see dear Mother’s kishkoman again. Get dressed.”
Menduarthis crawled back outside and held the door open for Nikle. The air that rushed inside was absolutely frigid. Nikle turned and faced her, gave a small bow, then walked out. The door shut after him.
Hweilan crawled out of the blankets. Even with the fire nearby, the air inside the tent was cold, and she shivered.
She was halfway finished donning the smallclothes when the door flew open, and Menduarthis leaned inside. Hweilan shrieked and grabbed the blankets to cover herself.
“I almost forgot this,’ he said, and threw in a pair of fur-lined boots, gloves, hat, and a fur cloak. The door slammed shut. “Hurry, girl!”
Knowing what nights in the mountains could feel like, Hweilan put the shift back on over her smallclothes and tucked it into the trousers. Every little bit of clothing would help.
Once she was fully dressed, she hung the kishkoman round her neck and stuffed it between her smallclothes and shift.
Give me the bow and knife or I take them. Menduarthis had said that right before he’d done … whatever he’d done. And he’d taken the bow and knife. Damn him.
Hweilan’s fear subsided as her anger returned. She’d been chased and threatened, and Menduarthis had taken away her weapons with ease. She’d have to find a less direct way of beating him if his magic could summon the winds like that.
Hweilan crouched and threw the door open. Menduarthis stood a few paces away, scuffing the toes of his boots through the snow. Nikle and a few other uldra chattered among themselves. Beyond them—
Hweilan stepped outside and got her first good look around. Her jaw dropped, and her eyes went wide. There were dome tents all around—some clustered around large firepits where cauldrons bubbled, others alone between the roots of trees.
And such trees. Hweilan craned her head upward. Pines of some sort, branches powdered in snow and trunks coated with frost, their lowest branches far overhead. The bases of the trees were larger than the topmost towers of Highwatch, and several had roots that broke up through the soil and twisted in arches that under which she could have walked upright.
She could only assume it was daytime, for soft gray light filtered down from the pines, but she could not see the sky through their branches. Most of the light came from the campfires.
Flowers grew amid the frost—in the dim light their petals looked silver, their leaves dark blue. Above she heard the songs of birds and cries of animals, but none she recognized.
All this she absorbed in one glance, then pain broke her concentration.
Cold hit her like a slap. Hard enough that she gasped. The
sharp intake of breath froze the insides of her nostrils and slid like a razor down her throat. Her exhale plumed like a geyser in front of her, froze into a miniature storm of frost, and fell with a whisper on the ground. The skin on her face tightened, and she thought she could feel the blood just under her skin freeze solid. Both eyes seemed to turn to round stones of ice in her head. She squeezed them shut.
She’d lived in snow-covered, ice-bound Narfell all her life, where winter winds howled down the mountainsides like tormented dragons. But she had never felt cold like this.
“Bit of a chill in the air this morning, isn’t there? “said Menduarthis, and when Hweilan opened her eyes a crack, she could see he was looking at her with that insolent smile. How could he be standing there bare-faced, no hat or hood, and seem so at ease?
He rattled off a string of words in the lilting language of the uldra, and Nikle proffered a small wooden bottle.
“Let me help you,’ Menduarthis told Hweilan. He upended the bottle on his thumb and reached for her face.
She flinched back out of reach.
“Easy. This is halbdol. A bit scenty, but the fumes will keep your eyes from freezing in your skull.’ “Why aren’t you wearing any?”
“I don’t need it. Take it or not. You can walk around all squint-eyed and grow icicles off your nose if you like. Yes or no?”
She gave him a curt nod and stepped forward. He smeared a thick coating of the black paste over each eyelid, coated the skin around her eye, and smeared a line below each eye. Then he drew a stripe down her nose and around each nostril, and coated her lips, chin, and cheeks. “Scenty” had been an understatement. The halbdol gave off wonderfully warm fumes, enabling her to open her eyes fully and breathe without pain. It had a heady scent of mint, flowers, and … something she couldn’t quite place.
“What is that made of?”
Menduarthis chuckled. “Probably best you not know. There!”
He stepped back and his chuckle turned into a laugh. Even Nikle and the other uldra smiled.
“You look like a very sad skull,” he said
Hweilan scowled.
“Forgive me,” said Menduarthis. He handed the bottle back to Nikle, then bent and cleaned off his thumb in the snow. “It’s quite becoming on you. The halbdol, I mean. Not the scowl.” He turned on his heel and began walking away. “We must be off. Mustn’t keep our lady waiting.”
Hweilan stood her ground. The uldra behind her crowded in close. Even Nikle scowled, and the others had taken tighter grips on their spears.
When Menduarthis noticed he was walking alone, he turned and raised his eyebrows. “Problem?”
“Where am I?” she asked.
“You’ll be in the bad graces of your hostess if you don’t come along.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers.”
Menduarthis grimaced. “We shall talk while we walk, yes?”
Hweilan spared the uldra another glance. The look in their eyes made the decision for her.
“Very well,” she said, and followed Menduarthis.
“This isn’t the Giantspires,” Hweilan said as they threaded their way through the scattering of tents and fires amid the trees.
“Very good,” said Menduarthis. “You have a talent for noting the obvious.”
They passed into a part of the camp where the fires were fewer, the trees closer, and all around her the world was a mixture of snow amid dark blue shadow. The trees seemed an army of towers that disappeared into a foggy murk overhead. But amid the murk, Hweilan caught glimpses of glowing eyes. More uldra? Perhaps. But if so, they could climb like monkeys.
“So where are we?”
“Frightened?”
“No,’ she told Menduarthis, and was surprised to realize it was true. Everything around her looked, smelled, and sounded completely … other. Completely foreign to everything she knew. Still, something about it seemed right. Not quite comfortable exactly, but …
“Home,’ said Menduarthis.
“What?”
“The short answer to your question. This is home. I’ve lived here many years. The uldra call it ban Meidan, which in their tongue means ‘our land.’ “He chuckled. “Very imaginative folk, the uldra. But those people in your world who know enough to know of this place, they call it the Feywild.”
Hweilan’s heart skipped a beat, and she gasped before she could catch herself.
The Feywild.
She’d heard bards’ songs of the place, and Dorim’s stories. Of all the dwarves who lived in Highwatch, Dorim was the only one to whom Hweilan had ever been close. Master craftsmen, his family crafted the bows for the Knights, and Dorim himself had crafted her father’s bow. But more than a master of weaponry, Dorim fancied himself a loremaster—though Hweilan’s grandmother had always called them “foolish dwarf nonsense.’ But Hweilan had loved his stories—the ones he’d tell her over a fire on the coldest winter nights, his bare feet propped next to the fire, his favorite pipe dangling between his lips.
All the lore and songs and fireside stories agreed on one thing—the Feywild was a place of peril, of beauties that would break your heart and horrors that would eat it. Some who wandered into the Feywild returned to the real world half-mad. And some never returned at all.
She didn’t know what to think. Her senses couldn’t deny her present location, no matter how much her reason tried to fight it. She’d somehow stumbled into a bard’s tale.
“Where is Lendri?” she asked.
Behind her, the uldra hissed. She turned and saw the hunters staring at her through narrowed eyes.
“Hmm,” said Menduarthis, and though his back was to her, she could hear the frown in his tone. “Best not mention that name around our little friends. Your pale pet doesn’t have the best reputation ‘round here.”
“Where is he? He isn’t … dead?”
“No.” He cast a sly eye over his shoulder and winked at her. “But the day’s not over yet.”
The darkness pressed down on them. Even with her keen eyesight, Hweilan could make out little except pale swathes of snow amid patches of shadow. They passed under a great arch of a tree root, icicles and silvery moss drooping from it like a ragged tapestry, before she saw the tundra tiger lounging atop the root, watching them.
Menduarthis caught her wide-eyed stare and said, “You behave yourself and so will the uldra’s playthings.”
She hurried under and past the root. The tiger watched them leave but did not follow.
“Why am I here?” she asked. “Why have you brought me to this place?”
“You’d rather we left you in the Giantspires to freeze or starve?”
“Of course not. But why bring me here?”
Menduarthis was silent a while. Long enough that Hweilan was beginning to think he wouldn’t answer. But then he sighed and said, “I was bored.”
“You brought me here because you’re bored?”
“You were found in the company of an elf that the queen swore to kill if she ever found. A little exciting, yes? That makes you a candidate for … well, a few questions, at the very least. What happens to you next”—he turned and smiled at her, but it was the smile of a wolf finding a lamb all alone on the hillside—” depends very much on your answers.” He looked around at their surroundings, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Best we not talk through this little bit of our stroll.”
“Why?” she whispered back. “You said the tigers would behave themselves.”
“There’s more than tigers in these woods. Quiet now. And stay close.”
They wound their way farther down into the valley. They left the giant trees behind and entered woods that seemed more familiar to Hweilan—at least in size. Set amid the frost and snow, their bark seemed just a shade above black, and their trunks and branches leaned and twisted every which way. Even though they were seemingly still in the grip of winter, leaves filled their branches. The leaves, some as large as her hand, seemed like an oak’s—thoug
h the blade had far too many points and their veins looked silver, even seeming to glow if she looked at them just right. Silver moss and icicles hung from them, and undergrowth, aside from the occasional bit of the strange flowers, was sparse.
Their path disappeared, and Menduarthis led them into the trees.
The air became much quieter. There were no more songs of birds or cries of animals. Their footfalls crunching through the snow seemed muted, and even the uldra appeared uneasy. They gripped their spears in tight fists, and their oddly glowing eyes kept careful watch.
A rift in the earth blocked their path. It was only four or five paces across, but so deep that Hweilan could not see its bottom. Ice-covered stone and soil fell away at her feet into shadow. Definitely too far to jump. Hweilan looked both ways, searching for a bridge. Then she saw somthing on the other side of the ravine.
“That is the strangest tree I have ever seen,” she said in an almost reverent whisper. The thing had two trunks that joined together about a third of the way up, then sprouted outward again just below the crown. It had an unsettlingly human shape. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of smaller branches, vines, and thorns sprouted from its limbs.
At the sound of Hweilan’s voice, the tree moved, the thick cluster of branches that Hweilan could only describe as a “head” turning toward them, and two eyes regarded her. They glowed like the uldras’ eyes, verdant green, and the look was decidedly baleful.
Menduarthis turned to her. He put a thin finger across his lips and whispered, “I said quiet.”
She stepped as close to him as she could without actually touching and whispered, “If this place is so dangerous and your queen wishes to see me, why has she not provided an escort?” Her words came out in a plume of frost that coated Menduarthis’s shoulder.
Chosen of Nendawen Book 001 - The Fall of Highwatch Page 14
