Wilde's Meadow

by Wade, Krystal

  “Katriona.” Perth moves his bony fingers from my hand and wraps them around my wrist.

  I jerk away from him, then punch my thigh again.

  “Kate! You are in shock. Let me take you to The Meadows. The Bheagans said the town is clear; we can go to Arland’s childhood home, assuming it is still standing.”

  Arland’s childhood home. It may smell like him, may have something I can touch and feel, something I can hold onto while I cry. “Okay.”

  “Hand me her reins,” Perth says, holding out his hand.

  “What? Why?”

  “In case you change your mind before we arrive.” He opens and closes his palm, demanding the leather straps.

  I sigh. “Here.”

  Digging his feet into Luatha’s sides, Perth leads Mirain, and Bowen trots behind.

  Small wooden houses built into the hills line both sides of the path. Raw, crooked logs support the roofs and white dirt walls, and brown grass acts as shingles atop the structures. The homes blend in with the natural landscapes, complete with large, jagged, gray stones forming fences and lining empty flowerbeds. I imagine in better times, this place could be gorgeous, peaceful, full of children laughing and playing with their friends.

  Children … .

  My heart squeezes. There are no words to describe how I miss Arland, how I need him, how I want him to welcome life into this world with me. I rub my belly again, stomach aching worse than my heart.

  “We are getting closer,” Perth says, eyeing my trembling hands.

  Nodding, I remain silent, watching as the trees become less prominent while signs of civilization dominate. The further along the path we travel, the larger the homes become. More modern in appearance, these earth dwellings look like someone took the hull of a sailboat, flipped it over and put a chimney on top. The walls facing the path are constructed from wood, and the same dead grass covers the small slats on the roofs.

  Gray bricks replace the natural terrain road as we enter a town with rows of narrow shops. The horse’s hooves clop on the more solid ground, echoing off the buildings and reminding me how quiet it is here. The street veers to the right and runs in a circle around a tall, barren chestnut encircled by a bench.

  I close my eyes, remembering my first meeting with Arland at Watchers Hall. The chestnut and the bench there are a perfect replica of what lies in this town’s center. Images of his emerald gaze, his strong jaw, and his slightly crooked nose fill my mind. You are Encardia’s only hope. If only I realized then how much I’d have to give up to help. Maybe I did. Maybe that’s why Gramhara gave me her power of love, to know better and run like hell to get away.

  Guess I missed the signs like usual.

  “You still with me?” Perth asks.

  I meet his eyes, wishing I could see Arland instead.

  “You do not need to speak. You acknowledged me; that is enough.”

  I return to taking in my surroundings, memorizing the place Arland grew up, the place he longed to go back to after the war. His home is so different than anything I’ve seen in Encardia. The town looks normal, Earthly, not a rugged compound built underground to hide people from danger; The Meadows could be from a storybook. A metal shop’s thick, wooden door is open and dangling by the top hinge. A butcher, a bakery, and a furnishings store—these are a few places with their hand-carved, wooden signs still intact, hanging from horizontal, wrought iron poles. Everything a small existence would need to survive, with or without magic, is here.

  Perth stops at a gorgeous stone cottage. An a-shaped roof resides over the tall structure. The left side of the house sweeps in a steep downward slant to the ground, and a wide chimney protrudes from the right side of the home. The door is circular, adorned with rusted, black hinges, and a knob oddly situated in the middle.

  “This is it.” Perth slides from Luatha then offers me his hand, helping me from Mirain.

  “Is this a home for High Leaders?” Nothing else appears nearly as majestic, nearly as captivating, as this.

  He shakes his head. “Arland’s father was not High Leader at the time the war began. Maoilriain was, and he lived in a place much larger than this on the other side of town, but it was devastated by fire, as was he.”

  Perth unsheathes his sword, gently takes my hand, then leads me up the stone steps, checking over his shoulder every few seconds.

  “Shhh.” He releases me, then turns the knob.

  The hinges squeak, jolting my already worn out nerves, as Perth opens the dull door covered with flaking red paint.

  “Follow me,” he says, motioning for me to join him.

  If anything is in here, his sword will do very little by itself to protect us. I focus on my wounded heart, on my sister, on Flanna, on Brad, on my father, on my … A-Arland. I choke.

  My love.

  The god who did this to me is dead, but I’m still angry, angry at the price I had to pay, angry it hurts so much.

  No, I must focus on protecting me and Perth. We’re alive; we’re what’s important right now, but I can’t. No fire rages in me. No passion. No Arland. He and I together were the key, and he’s gone.

  I’m alone.

  Tripping over the doorframe, I tumble to my knees and make no effort to get up. I lean my forehead on the cold floor and cry, tears rushing from my eyes and landing on the wood in a steady stream, forming small pools. “Why? Why me? Why so much evil, so much loss?”

  “The house is clear,” Perth says, rubbing his hand on my left shoulder blade. “Come sit down. I will tie off the horses and find some wood.” He slides his palm down my arm then takes my hand in his, lifting me from the ground. “Will you be okay?”

  I glance around the airy room and spot a rocking chair by the fireplace. I wonder if Arland’s mother rocked him to sleep there when he was just a baby, if she read him stories by a crackling fire to put him to sleep, if she held him tight just to tell him she loved him. “I’ll be fine. I’m going to sit in that chair.”

  Perth cups his left hand over mine, sandwiching it between his other, and nods. “I—”

  “Just go, Perth.” Walking away and wishing to be alone, I escape his worried looks and run my fingers along the top of the chair, leaving a trail in the thick layer of dust.

  A small spider scurries down a spindle of the backrest, then hides under the seat.

  I look over my shoulder and find a thin cloth lying across a counter between where I stand and walls of empty bookshelves. Rushing over, I grab the fabric and shake it out, clouds of dust zipping away. I wipe the counter, a square table with purple and green quartz stones resting on it, the slate mantle, and finally the chair. I toss the rag aside then prop my hands on my hips, spinning in place, inspecting what else needs tending.

  Spilling from the firebox, ashes cake the hearth. A scoop, broom, and bucket rest on the floor. I slide them over and set to work, removing the remnants of old fires and placing them into the metal container. Within a matter of minutes, the bin is full, and I look around for something else to occupy my time.

  Vases, paper, dead mice, broken glass—so many things are on the floor, so many things that need to be cleaned. Venturing down a long hall on the left, I pick up bits and pieces of the glass and collect them in my tunic. They clink together as I walk from room to room, searching for something—anything—to bring me closer to Arland. On the right, just before the library without any books, is a round door cracked open, revealing a four-poster bed no larger than twin-sized, in the center.

  The hinges protest as I push on the door and step into what has to be Arland’s room. He was so young when they left The Meadows, but there aren’t any toys in here. There are maps and targets on the walls, and broken arrowheads on the floor. His father must have already been training him. Arland had no childhood, only preparation for war, for me, for a short life … .

  The glass drops from my tunic, landing on the floor with a clinking of noises.

  I drift further inside the room and open a closet on the far wall. T
here’s nothing in here but more spiders and dust. Walking to a wall of curtains, I pull them back and see more Darkness. I allow them to fall closed again, then make my way to the bed. The red and black quilted comforter is as dingy as everything else. Lifting it and flicking it out, I fill the air with years’ worth of dirt, but I don’t care. I check for creepy crawlies, remove my sword, lean it against a wooden poster, then climb in.

  His pillow is lumpy and smells stale, burning my nose with each breath I take, and yet it’s the best thing I’ve felt in days … months.

  Who knows?

  Drawing the scratchy, cotton covers over my shoulder, I close my eyes.

  “Katriona?” Perth calls, muffled by the walls between us.

  Responding seems like such a waste of energy. I’m in a bed—a real bed—Arland’s bed.

  “Katriona!” The Ground Dweller yells this time, voice reaching an octave telling me he’s concerned.

  “I’m back here,” I shout, fighting a yawn.

  Fast-paced footsteps pound on the wooden floor, then Perth bursts through the door.

  “You are not in the chair,” he says breathlessly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He brushes the back of his fingers along my cheek.

  “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

  Perth has been so kind, so caring. I know he promised to keep me safe, but he must be concerned for Rhoswen.

  “I’ll help you get a fire started.” I lift the blankets and sit up.

  “I will take care of it.” Perth puts his hand on my shoulder, holding me in place. “You should take off your armor. I do believe we are safe here. You will rest more comfortably without it.” He tugs at my forearm guards. “Let me help you.”

  I don’t fight him. Perth got over his infatuation for me as soon as he spent time alone with Rhoswen, and my desire to move at all is gone. He lifts the armor over my head, and the sandwich bags Mom and Brit gave me fall into my lap.

  “What are those?” Perth picks up the bags and holds them in front of his green eyes.

  Snatching them from him, I squeeze the last bit of my sister and the reminders of my latest journey with Arland in my palm. “Nothing.”

  “I understand.” Perth sighs. “Does … does the child make you tired? Are you starving? Is there anything I can do for you?”

  I want to tell him to look for Arland, to get my sister and Flanna, to yell at the gods and ask them where the sun is, but I shake my head and lie back down. “I’m not sure I can eat right now, but I am tired.”

  He stretches the covers over me, then heads for the door. “I will start a fire and wait for the others. If you need me, just call.”

  “Thank you,” I say, clutching the bags and the blankets to my chest.

  “No, thank you. You have sacrificed more than I could ever imagine. Sleep well.” Perth closes the door.

  I will make it through this. I have to. My mom survived without my dad; I can survive without … . I see Arland’s face, his eyes always looking at me, his enchanting smile. Burying my head in the pillow, I allow pain to take me. I smell his woodsy scent: morning dew, pine, and faint hints of a hardworking man all mixed together.

  Sobs rumble through my core, tearing through my throat and escaping as deep, gut-wrenching cries. I try remembering the warmth of his hands around me, the rhythmic beating of his heart I heard so many times while bathing with him or sleeping on his chest. My chest tightens, forcing out my air and torching my lungs. I cry so long and hard it’s impossible to go on. My eyelids are heavy and burn. My body is weak and empty. I close my eyes and force myself to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty

  “You promised you would go on with life if something happened to me.” Arland strokes my cheek with his fingertips, leaving trails of heat in his wake.

  I lean my face into his palm and take a deep breath, soaking in his touch. “You told me many times you weren’t going to die.”

  He laughs, the warmth of it rivaled only by the sun shining down on us. “Everyone dies, Kate.”

  If I weren’t so comfortable, I’d scream at him, tell him he sounds too much like my mother. “You know what I mean.”

  “She needs you.” Arland pulls me into his lap, then rakes his fingers through my long, tangled hair.

  I pick a piece of golden wheat, twirling the stalk in my palms. “How did you know I was thinking about her?”

  “We have shared thoughts for a while now.” He leans over and plucks a purple flower, then tucks it behind my ear. “Promise me you will be strong for her?”

  Sitting up, I meet his captivating emerald gaze and press my forehead to his. “How can I be strong for her when I can’t make it a moment without thinking about you?” I gasp. “Is this a dream?”

  He frowns. “Do you feel me?”

  I reach out my hand to touch his face, but he fades, and the sky turns black. Orange flames burst from the ground, burning the wheat and wildflowers. Standing, I spin around, looking for a way out, but then I see a bat swoop down from the sky, and I hear my sister scream.

  She kicks and flails against the clawed grip of the daemon. He flies her toward … I squint … me and Brad—no, Dughbal. God, please, don’t make me watch this again. I close my eyes, but the scene plays inside my eyelids.

  I know this is a dream, and I want out.

  Now.

  I can’t watch this again.

  “Please! Why are you doing this to me?”

  Remember! Griandor’s voice booms in my head.

  Golden light rises from Brit’s open mouth then darts to Arland, illuminating our Binding braids.

  I open my eyes and turn my face toward the sky, wrapping my arms around my shaking frame. “I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to see this again. Please, make it stop.”

  “Mharúgrá.” Black fog swirls around Arland, hiding him from me, stealing his life.

  Balling my fists, I scream at the sight of the loss of my husband. “Are you happy now? I’ve seen it! Again you’ve forced me to watch my world fall apart. Why?”

  Remember … .

  “Arland!” I bolt upright in bed, sweat beading on my skin.

  Perth bursts into the room, eyes wide and scanning our surroundings, sword in hand. “What is it? Are you okay?”

  “Just a dream.” I lie down, tucking my arm under the pillow. “I’m sorry. I haven’t had a nightmare in months. Arland’s presence somehow protected me from them.”

  Lowering his sword, he steps next to the bed and rests his weapon beside mine. “Maybe being alone is not good for either of us.”

  Perth glances at the door, then back to me. He hangs his head. “Do you mind if I bring in a chair and sit with you? I feel I could better protect you, and it might ease our loneliness.”

  Everything Perth says or does makes me think of Arland. I begged him to stay with me after we’d just met, when the dreams were too much, and he offered to sleep in the rickety chair but wound up with his arms around me before the night was over. Every memory I have of him torments my heart. I don’t want to move on, don’t want to heal. I just want Arland to walk through that door and lie next to me where he belongs.

  “That was inappropriate.” Perth grabs his sword and rushes to the door. “I will sit outside.”

  I nod, giving him the confirmation he needs to leave, and he does so without another word.

  I’m a horrible person. Perth is in pain. He’s lost so much, and his future is as unclear as mine. If his father hasn’t changed, we face a lot more Darkness in our lives. With Arland out of the picture and Rhoswen not being born of Leader blood, will Dufaigh force his son down a path he doesn’t want? Will the ruthless Leader of the Ground Dwellers wish to see me, widow of Arland Maher, Bound to his son to bring power to their family? Does Dufaigh still want to burn me, the next living Draíochtan in line to be High Leader, the person who sacrificed everything to end a war, who brought old magic back to life?

  Now more than ever, Perth and I need to be united. He’ll have to
stand up against his father, or surely everything I negotiated at Willow Falls will be lost.

  An image of a Weeping Willow intrudes upon my thoughts—Arland and all those candles, smiling, waiting to marry me … .

  My heart flutters, and my soul aches for him. If I could just feel Arland, hear his voice … . I close my eyes and press the pillow over my face, attempting to muffle my sobs. The warm, humid air moistens my skin and makes it impossible to breathe. Rolling onto my front, I use the mattress to quiet my cries, but doing so makes my stomach churn.

  I’m pregnant. A part of Arland grows inside me, a part that will need a mother, a family. How did my mom handle this so well? She was pregnant, and I was just an infant when dad died. There were two of us she had to care for, and we all survived, but this is different. I could have protected Arland, could have prevented his death, could have forced him to stay away. Mom didn’t lose her sister, her best friend, and gods only know who else all in one day. Our situations are totally different.

  Remember … .

  Scrambling to my knees, I stare at the wooden beams in the ceiling, hoping to stare right into Graindor’s eyes. “Why don’t you show yourself to me, Griandor? Why do you keep telling me to remember? What am I supposed to remember? That Arland died? That you haven’t returned Brad’s life? That I’m pregnant? What the hell is it?”

  Perth bursts into the room again, following my gaze to the ceiling. “Who were you yelling at?”

  “A god.” The anger fades, and I sit. “Maybe you should stay with me, Perth. I’m losing my mind. I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about what happened or about you and what your father will try to do—”