“No, I—I mean, this is going a lot smoother than I thought it would,” he muttered. “That’s all.”
He scooted back, pivoting to better face her, and suddenly cupped her chin in his palm. Before she could ask, his light touch upon her cheek silenced her. Her skin prickled pleasantly under his touch, and the feeling radiated to the rest of her body.
“Before we begin,” he said intently, holding her gaze. “I want you to know that this will hurt, but the pain is brief.”
Lilac blinked and nodded dizzily. They didn’t have to be in love. Right? Was this what it was like to be reckless? To be normal enough to be allowed the freedom—the room—for recklessness, and other possible mistakes? To regain control of the life so many years concealed had robbed her of?
Without hesitation, she reached down to undo the strings at her bosom.
But Garin’s large hand hastily clamped down over hers. “Hold on,” he half chuckled, shaking his head vigorously back and forth. “Hold on. What are you doing?”
Something told Lilac that not much flustered him. Even if they’d barely touched each other, his eyes were wide as saucers.
“Oh. Would… you like to do it instead?”
Rubbing the back of his neck with his palm, Garin regarded her as if she were mental instead of something to desire.
“Erm, no, that doesn’t need to come off.” His voice shook slightly. He leaned in, taking her by the waist and cupping the back of her head ever so gently. “Close your eyes and breathe.”
Lilac did as she was told, allowing him to recline her just a little. The knots in her stomach seemed to undo themselves all too quickly, bouncing between nerves and excitement. Her breath hitched when she finally felt his lips brush her neck, and—
The pressure was gone, and a bloodcurdling yelp shattered the silence.
When Lilac opened her eyes, he was curled on the floor in front of her, groaning and clutching his head with both hands. She quickly righted herself, heart pounding.
“What happened? Did I do something wrong?”
“Shut,” he breathed. Then, with restraint, he lowered his voice. “Shut your beautiful mouth for a second. Please.”
Lilac couldn’t believe it. Perhaps he’d had a strong aversion or allergic reaction to her lavender oil. At the castle there had been a miserable maiden of her mother’s who’d often react to roses and oysters.
Then again, Garin didn’t look all that sick. Just furious.
Hot tears welled behind her eyes. This was what she got for making herself so desperately available. For being so vulnerable.
She stormed over to the fireside to retrieve her bag, then spun to leave—but Garin had pushed past his invisible injury. He stood, blocking the doorway. The rest of her fading buzz wore off almost immediately.
“I am leaving,” she said firmly, clenching her burlap sack with both hands to stop her fists from shaking.
The corner of Garin’s jaw twitched as if he struggled with something. “You’re not.”
Fear thrummed through her.
“I won’t harm you,” he said, desperation fraying his frustration. “You have my word—”
“Let me go,” she demanded, fighting to keep calm command of her voice.
Before he could reply, Meriam’s shrill voice floated up the stairwell and through the door.
“Garin!” the innkeeper shrieked. “They’re brawling again!” A glass shattered faintly in the distance.
Garin swore under his breath. “Don’t move. I-I’ll be right back.” He slipped out of the door and shut it again faster than Lilac could get there.
Panic rising in her chest, she tried the knob. It turned easily. He either hadn’t bothered or forgot to lock it. She swallowed against her dry throat. Both fear and humiliation were the only things stopping her from bolting down into the tavern, out the way she came. If he gave chase, she realized with a violent shudder… who in the Darkling tavern would come to her defense?
No one.
Lilac fought down another shiver. She’d find another way to escape before he returned.
Pure instinct reminded her of her belt, and the very important dagger attached to it. She scooped it up off the floor and quickly refastened it around her waist.
She needed to make every day, every minute of her trip count, and when Garin returned, who knows what he’d intended for her. She wouldn’t make it to Paimpont or back to the castle in time if she never made it out of the inn alive. Lilac held her breath and pressed her ear once more to the door. No footsteps. The only way to tell the time now was—
She bolted to the only window in the room, carved from the east-facing wall. The curtain—coarse wool, she felt as she ran her fingers frantically over it—was so thick that no light had leaked through. She yanked them open, and beams of golden dawn light poured in. Frantically, she tugged at the single brass turnbuckle. Nothing.
Heart thundering in her chest, she tugged with everything she had, clawed at the framing, but the window was stuck tightly in place. In one last desperate attempt, she grabbed the candelabra off the bedside table and smashed it twice against the turnbuckle. The whole thing popped off, and the frame easily gave with a loud creak.
She placed a foot onto the ledge and remembered her room was on the second floor. Although the fall wasn’t terribly far, she would’ve preferred not having to nurse a broken limb on the way to the witch. She hoisted herself up so she sat on the ledge and gripped onto the brick wall, fingering the rough limestone for any type of foothold. Finally, she felt the robust vines of ivy she’d noticed the night before. The chance that the vines would actually support all her weight was slim to none, but the hedge below would break her inevitable fall.
Hopefully.
Before she could decide, the door flew open with a bang behind her. Garin, in all of his wicked glory, stood in livid shock. For a split second, Lilac thought she saw a flicker of concern cross his face.
Then, he lunged at her.
With no time to solidify her grasp on the vines, Lilac gripped what was already in her palms, and jumped.
5
For the second time in the short span of her journey, Lilac found herself running blindly. Within yards of the building she stumbled upon a thin stream she’d overlooked during the night’s rainstorm. Following the water seemed like her best bet, as it’d been Ophelia’s instruction; she trailed the stream until it led up to a widened expanse of water. The Argent.
She trekked alongside it until the lack of slumber finally caught up with her. Once she made sure there was no one else around, she made her way down to a portion of bank shrouded with overgrown reeds. She stripped down and waded in until she was submerged.
It was well into day, but the rays of sunlight dancing across the water’s surface did nothing to warm the slow-moving river. She emerged, gasping, and sloshed back to the bank where she’d left her belongings.
Lilac scrubbed herself fervently while keeping her eyes peeled on the surrounding trees. She huffed in the crisp forest air, shocking herself as tears welled up in her eyes. She scrubbed the bar of soap roughly against her skin, a vain attempt to slough away the memories of the night and early morning.
She hoped to wash away the bitterness she felt toward her parents, for in her upbringing, their reputation had taken precedence over everything including teaching her to protect herself from the world and its lurking miscreants.
In the shadows of early nightfall, Lilac made her way through the mud and fallen bramble left over from the rainstorm, easing her way along the left riverbank and following it downstream. She wasn’t the strongest swimmer, and wasn’t sure how deep it got in the middle, so she was careful to steer clear of the edge especially as dusk crept into the sodden eaves. After her ogre nest incident, she was hesitant to purposely travel all too visibly along the patches of moonlight dappling the ground. Instead, she made sure to remain in the shadows, but near enough to the river that the soothing rush of water remained audible. Every so often,
a small cacophony of bubbles made her wonder what other creatures lurked in there. Hopefully nothing else that wanted to eat her. She pulled her wool cloak tighter around her face as the dark deepened and her breath became visible. It would be another cold night.
She walked for what seemed like hours, but according to the speed in which the tangerine sky faded to a muted black, it was probably much less than that. When the silhouettes of the trees blended with evening and silver stars twinkled to life, Lilac paused to take a quick break. She shrugged the heavy sack off her shoulders, and unfastened her belt so she could breathe. Stretching her arms high into the air, she groaned with relief when her shoulder blades finally cracked. She then crouched over the riverbank, scooping up an icy handful and bringing it to her lips. She gulped the spring water gratefully.
A twig crunched somewhere to her left. Lilac stood and whipped around so quickly that spots danced before her eyes. It wasn’t dark enough yet that she required her lantern, and she didn’t want to draw unwanted attention to herself. But she couldn’t quite make out what was moving between the trees. Something was there, though; barely audible, the twigs and leaves continued to rustle as if bearing the weight of someone—or something. She frantically scanned the darkness.
She recalled once reading about certain plants native to the Low Forest, memory tampering fruit and hallucinogenic mushrooms, whose seed and spore the Fae would purposefully sprinkle closer to human territory. Such vegetation was illegal to harvest and produce, but as Lorietta had mentioned, the inhabitants of Brocéliande played by their own rules.
Everything she’d consumed and drank as of late had been prepared by the kindred witch, so that made the possibility of poisoning unlikely; however, it wasn’t exactly something she’d put past Garin. Her throat tightened.
The harder she peered, the clearer the sounds grew, almost as if from behind a thick curtain that slowly opened. There was something else this time. Music. Pleasant flute music, and layered beneath that… Lighthearted chatter. Laughter, even. Suppressing a violent shudder, she clenched her fists and advanced through the perimeter of trees. There, she found herself at the mouth of a small clearing.
The chatter and flute music ceased abruptly. Had it all been a figment of her overactive imagination? Of her overtiredness?
Lilac froze, realizing she’d been lured away from the river—and her potato sack. And her belt, which held the dagger.
She scrambled back against a moss-covered trunk at the edge of the clearing. Should she run back to her belongings and her dagger? Or would her sudden movement attract the now-silent source of the voices? Lilac rubbed her eyes.
She was losing it.
Her heart nearly stopped when two distinct voices echoed out of the air right before her.
“Can she—can she see us?”
“Shut your mouth, Ra’arak,” the second voice rasped. It was deeper, rougher than the first.
“The ward, maybe it’s broken.”
“I swear to Jotuun, Ra’arak,” snapped the second voice.
“Cute little thing, she is, aye?”
That was enough. By their voices, she could tell they were obviously Darklings; interacting would only give her away. But, in the moment, being unable to see them was somehow even more unnerving than revealing her identity.
“Show yourselves,” she commanded, eyeing the empty clearing warily.
The moment she addressed the floating voices, a burst of warm air exploded, scattering the dirt and forest debris toward her. Lilac cried out and barely shielded her face in time. Shaking, she dusted her arms off and opened her eyes.
It was as if she’d been transported to another area of the forest entirely.
A handful of colorful patchwork tents barely taller than Lilac encircled a towering bonfire at the center of the clearing. The fire pit had been dug exceptionally deep, and was still lined with a wall of river rocks, probably meant to both shield the flames from the biting breeze and prevent them from catching onto the too-close tents. It appeared the tents had been fashioned out of different garments—clothes, underwear, sheets—sewn crudely together.
Four korrigans sat on logs between the tents and hearth, staring dumbfoundedly in her direction. Two more stood right in front of her, their jaws hanging. Their eyes came level to her breasts; she pretended to sniffle in the cold and crossed her arms across her chest.
“The ward,” the korrigan on the right, the rough-voiced one, said. “It’s gone…”A pair of round spectacles bounced above his grey, bulbous nose every time he spoke.
“I—I apologize,” Lilac stammered. “I didn’t… I heard footsteps and voices, and followed them. I didn’t mean to—”
“You heard us, through the ward,” he repeated, half to himself as the korrigan next to him trembled in silence. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes. And no. No need for apologies, we are able to conjure the ward all over again—it’s simple, all we’ll do is use the bewitched flint to light a fire and we are hidden safely from outsiders. We are only revealed if the flames are extinguished… or if we, the hidden, interact with those from whom we are hiding…” he muttered. Then, he looked up again, peering inquisitively through his spectacles as if seeing her for the first time all over again. “So, erm, how exactly did you find us?”
Lilac blinked, feeling dizzy all of the sudden. “I heard you first. Then, suddenly I could see you. Perhaps your ward is broken,” she offered feebly, hoping to derail him from her identity. Though her speaking to them made it obvious, it was a try. The poor git didn’t seem all there, to begin with.
“We have had the bewitched flint for a few years now. But, even then…” The korrigan’s deep brown eyes grew large as the moon. “You are human,” he gasped. “Yet, here you are speaking to us, just as I can speak to Ra’arak here.”
Lilac’s heart skipped a beat. They were far more intelligent than she’d given them credit for.
“I’m, erm…” She swallowed nervously, feeling six pairs of beady eyes burning into her forehead.
“The girl with the Darkling Tongue,” Ra’arak finally cried, his outstretched arms trembling.
A wave of hushed gasps arose from the korrigans around the fire. They scuttled over to gather behind Blitzrik and Ra’arak. The six of them formed a small crowd, cornering her against the tree trunk and whispering frenziedly.
She was trapped.
In one last, weak attempt, Lilac held her palms up. “No, no, I—I’m so sorry, you must have me terribly mistaken. I’m—”
“The girl with the Darkling Tongue,” Blitzrik repeated insistently.
“Princess Lilac,” the six murmured together like an awestruck choir. “Trécesson.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. She couldn’t do anything but shake her head in protest. She was done for. They would knock her unconscious with their clubs, or—her eyes darted frantically around the campsite—with their sheepskin drums and harp. Surely their miniature knives were hidden somewhere, perhaps in their ratty clothes. They’d maim her, cut her body into small pieces and roast her limbs over that gigantic fire. Then, they’d devour her like a tender pork rib.
She was the prodigal daughter of the very monarch who had set Henri’s Law into motion to oppress Darklings and revoke what few freedoms they’d had left. Why not kill and eat her?
She looked down, half expecting knife tips bristling in her direction. Instead, Blitzrik and Ra’arak had fallen to their knees at her feet. The korrigans behind them followed suit and kneeled, heads bent.
“Finally, Your Royal Highness. You’re here to help us,” Blitzrik announced in his baritone.
“Quick, you must fetch her something to drink,” he directed at Ra’arak next to him, nudging his elbow back to the campsite while maintaining a bowed head. “Your Royal Highness, what’ll it be? Water? Tea? Warm water?”
Lilac could only stare petrified with disbelief. She was stuck against her tree. The dagger and the rest of her belongings seemed so far away.
�
��Tea it is,” he rumbled. As if on cue, the korrigans raised their heads, remaining on their knees except for Ra’arak, who rose to his pudgy feet and scurried into the nearest tent.
Lilac cleared her throat awkwardly while glancing down upon the peculiar, grey-skinned creatures. As the bards had in the tavern, they wore some semblance of tattered human shirts, previously white or cream linen and now a grungy brown. Each donned a little red hat knitted to their size and at least appeared to be male, though she wasn’t at all positive. Back at the tavern she hadn’t gotten a close enough look; their faces were human-like but totally disproportionate, especially in their noses and puffed lips, which made them look like they’d been stung by wasps.
She wrung her hands, finally mustering the courage to speak. “I appreciate the kind gesture, but you needn’t kneel. Truly.”
The korrigans nodded in agreement but remained on the floor.
“We’ve been waiting for this day, Your Royal Highness,” Blitzrik said. “We knew you were different.”
“Different?”
“Yes, m’lady. Different from the king and queen. From everyone else. You can speak to us, and we to you. We thought it might have been a legend, the girl who speaks to creatures. To us. I thought it might’ve been a sick joke of some kind. But here you are.” He extended his shaking hand. “Here you are.”
A sick joke indeed. Lilac cleared her throat again, at a loss for words. She placed her gigantic palm in Blitzrik’s smaller one and forced a polite smile as he briefly pressed the back of her hand to his calloused lips. Her insides crawled. She glanced up at the small crowd; the rest of the korrigans grinned back nervously. Two of them whispered to each other.
“Her hair—what happened to her long, luscious hair?”
“Shh. Goodness, she’s more beautiful up close.”
“You’ve never even seen her before,” the first korrigan scoffed.
“You don’t know anything. It was through their carriage window once, traveling through here when she was a wee child.”
Disenchanted Page 8
