Brea tasted salt in the back of her throat. She had no notion of how to fit herself into a world—whether human or faerie—that did not hold the shape of who she was.
“Do not despair.” Puck shook himself, and she saw his sorrow fly off his shoulders and fade into the sunset sky. “If you are true of heart, you will find the way. Deep inside you, the path awaits.”
“How will I know where to find it?”
“Follow the taste of the rowan berry,” he said. “It will lead you to your fate. And now, Mistress Brea, I must bid you farewell.”
“Don’t go.” She reached one pale hand toward him. Before he’d come, she had not known she was so lonely.
He did not reply—only spun himself about three times in a whirl of tatters and feathers and was gone.
Shore birds cried into the dusk, and the water lapped the bank. There was no one to talk to, except the school of silver fish swimming about the stone. And they did not speak in conversation, but in flashes of image and color.
Still, it was better than the silence of her own human thoughts. Letting out all her breath, Brea pushed herself off the rock and let the water surround her. Three heartbeats later there was no dark-haired girl pining upon a half-submerged stone, but only a new fish weaving through the current.
It was an unquiet current though, with an amber-gold thread of loam and smoke and shadows running through. It brushed along her sides, beckoning, and she found she could not resist its call.
Despite her efforts, she was not able to interest the other fish in following to see where it led. They desired only pale wave and lavender ripple, bright dart and flashing turn.
Alone, Brea-within-the-fish circled about her companions in farewell, and then left them to play in the light-filled shallows.
The taste of mystery pulled her on, past a rocky outcropping to a place where a stream poured into the larger water. Amber diluted with turquoise as the waters mixed and flowed, but it was that warmer taste within the rivulet that she must follow.
She dashed herself into the mouth of the stream and was pushed back. Once, twice, thrice—and then she discovered the trick of swimming against the current. First to one side and then the other she swam, stitching her way from bank to bank.
When she wearied she found a quiet eddy behind an algae-covered rock, and rested there until she regained her strength. The sky above the stream darkened as she followed the golden strand within the water, until at last she reached a small side-pool that tasted of contentment.
Flicking her tail, she dived in and out of the stream, but the golden thread had curled in on itself and gone to rest in the silty bottom. The undercut bank held peaceful shadows, and the tangled roots of trees wove a screen she might shelter behind. It was as good enough a place as any to bide.
Overhead, the evergreens nodded, their branches waving softly like a mother hushing her child. Above their dark heads the first sprinkling of stars shone, flecks of light springing up before the sickle moon could scythe them down.
* * *
There was no passage of days in the waters where Brea now dwelt. The sky dimmed and brightened from dusk to night and back again, skipping sunlight altogether. She discovered the rocks upstream where the current frothed and raced, and the quiet eddies where tadpoles fluttered. When the moon shone full, dew-winged sprites danced above the silver-lit stream, their footsteps light as rain over the water.
Brea felt no urge to move on. The golden strand that had brought her here did not reappear to beckon her forth to new rivers and depths. She splashed and darted, waiting without urgency for whatever might come. Some deep sense of knowing told her she was where she ought to be.
That peaceful contentment changed one dusky evening. The evergreens shivered, and she felt their roots stirring in the water.
Something was coming.
She darted beneath the bank and held herself there, suspended. Watching.
Brightness approached—a ball of flame hovering and bobbing through the forest. It halted on the opposite side of the stream, licking the surface with streaks of red and gold. She was too afraid to rise and see if it were a wisp, or a fallen star, or a light held aloft by some strange creature.
Sound filtered through the water, syllables with edges, full of question and danger. Brea back-finned into the shadows. She would hide until the forest became quiet and safe once more.
As if sensing her movement, the ball of flame floated out to the middle of the stream. Brea whirled and darted deeper beneath the bank, though she feared it was already too late.
After a dozen of her frightened heartbeats, the fiery sphere withdrew. It moved along the bank a short distance, but she knew the danger was not over. Indeed, the light returned soon enough, and the soil vibrated with the sound of footsteps. More than one creature roamed there beside the stream. They seemed to be seeking something.
A berry floated past, carried gently on top of the water. Brea ignored it and practiced blending with the roots she sheltered behind.
Another came past, and another, each one leaving a trace of flavor behind—something wild and tangy. Freedom. Adventure. Come, bite. The berries bobbed on the surface, red and full of magic.
She must not taste of them. Brea forced herself to stay in the deeps, her body quivering with effort.
A dozen floated slowly by, one by one. At the thirteenth, she could remain still no longer. Despairing, she flipped her body upward, capturing the berry in her mouth.
The taste trembled through her, urgent and immediate. Without letting it go, she fled downstream. Something pulled taut, then let her run, then wound up again. The far bank drew nearer, but she could not release the fruit. It was stuck fast in her mouth, and so she darted and ran, seeking vainly to escape.
The flame bobbed directly overhead, a tiny sun. She broke the surface in a panic of air and silver, twisting desperately. The light suffocated her and she thrashed, trying to break free.
Then darkness closed about her, but it was not the comforting liquid of the shadows. This was rough and dry, scraping her skin, smelling of something horrible. Harsh air surrounded her, and Brea gasped, drowning in the dryness…
Change. She must shift her form, or die.
Summoning all her strength, she bid her body to transform. Hard earth beneath her. Not water. No longer fish, but girl. She clung to the thought, and at last her scales fell away. Pain rippled through her as she became heavy and slow, trapped by air and gravity, now elongated into her human form.
It was done—but she was still in darkness. Drawing in shallow, rapid breaths, she realized she was caught in folds of cloth. She clawed at the fabric until she was free.
Trees above her, and the orb of the moon. Beyond lay the safety of the stream—but two creatures stood between her and the water. Not monsters. Humans, but so strangely garbed.
One of them stepped forward, hair an odd, bright color, and said something that might have been a greeting.
Or a threat.
The other set one hand to his belt, where a knife hung.
Brea glanced down at her own form. She was naked, her long dark hair woven with white blossoms. Run!
A heartbeat later she was on her feet, leaping surefooted through the forest. If she could loop back around to the stream, or even find a pond, she could dive for safety.
Behind her the humans crashed and called.
Brea lifted her face, scenting the wind for water. Something golden and sweet tugged at her senses and she veered, leaping lightly over bracken fern. Despite her nakedness, the forest was kind. The moss cushioned her steps, and no sharp twigs scraped her pale unprotected skin.
The forest thinned, the scent drawing her on. A half-remembered taste, tart and lovely. Apples.
She broke out of the trees into silvery grasses dancing in the starlight. Before her rose a long hill, and at the top a tree grew, branches heavy with both blossom and fruit. She cast a glance behind her, to see her pursuers closer than she had guessed.
<
br /> With a last burst of speed, Brea raced up the hill. The apple tree bowed and bent, a golden fruit caught high in its branches, but she dared not pause.
Onward, past the tree, past a faerie ring studded with mushrooms, past a low stone wall. At last, breath scraping in her lungs, limbs burning with effort, she could run no more.
There was no lake, no stream, no rivulet nearby to offer her shelter. Wearily, Brea dropped to the ground, the grasses rising around her. At least the human creatures no longer chased her. The silence of the night was broken only by the chirp of an insect, the rustle of the wind through the grass.
And then came a sound to freeze her newly-warmed blood: the wail of a hunting horn echoing across the sky.
The Wild Hunt was riding.
Even safe in her waterborne form, she knew to dive deep when the unearthly riders and spectral hounds galloped through the night. Once, she had seen the wavering shadow of the Huntsman silhouetted against the moon, his fearsome shape crowned with mighty antlers.
Shivering, Brea stood and scanned the silvery meadows surrounding her. Far ahead a dark smudge rose on the horizon; perhaps a sheltering forest, perhaps a low rise of hills. She lifted her face and scented deeply of the air, but there was no smell of water nearby. No safety she could plunge into and disappear.
She prayed there was still some cover she might find, a hazel copse or small tarn. Turning her steps toward the horizon, she began to run once more.
The horn did not sound again, but far too soon she heard the shrill yipping of hounds and the thunder of hooves. Brea glanced over her shoulder and gasped at the sight of the Wild Hunt galloping across the sky, bearing down on her in all their glory.
Glowing, gossamer-maned horses with fiery eyes bore stern and beautiful elfin knights, their hair whipping in the wind. Hounds raced before them, sinuous as smoke, red eyes burning like coals. And in the midst, the horned figure of the Huntsman, a midnight cloak billowing behind him.
Heart beating fast as a bird’s, Brea raced over the meadows. Above the sharpness of her breaths and the drumming hooves, she heard the high keening of bagpipes.
There was no escape. She was too slow, and the hunt surrounded her.
The riders landed, hemming her in a circle, and Brea halted. Chin high, she faced the Huntsman, though her legs felt weak as water.
“What do you want of me?” she asked.
“The Dark Queen demands your presence,” the Huntsman said, his voice deep and low. “You have aided the enemy.”
“What enemy?” She cast her mind back, trying to understand, but his words had no meaning. Did this concern the humans who had chased her? “I have done nothing.”
“That is for the queen to decide.”
The horned figure gestured to one of his riders. Before Brea could utter a protest she was scooped up and set in front of a black-haired rider with cold green eyes. His arm was a vise about her waist, and she did not bother to struggle. She would conserve her strength for a fight that she might win.
Although how she could possibly win anything from the Dark Queen of the Realm, Brea had no notion. She knew very little about the queen, having never strayed far into the midnight side of the Realm. Neither had she forayed into the sunlit reaches ruled by the Bright King. The dusk-lit sky had been enough for her, the sunset-tipped waves and still pools lit silver by the rising moon.
All she knew was that the queen ruled the Dark Realm, and that even in the gloaming far from the midnight heart of her court, creatures spoke of her with fear and awe.
The eldritch horn sounded, and the Wild Hunt leaped into the sky. The air cooled and the wind of their passing blew Brea’s dark hair back from her face. Around them, the stars hovered close as the fiery-footed steeds climbed into the sky. She felt as though she might lift her hand and cut her fingers against the sickle blade of the moon.
Night wove thickly about the hunt as they rode into the heart of the Dark Realm, until at last they reached the stillness of midnight. Gnarled oaks grew in the shadowed forest below, and she glimpsed a clearing lit with dozens of faerie-fire candles and a bonfire flickering with purple light.
Fey folk thronged there, some dancing wildly about the violet flames, others gathered at the long feasting tables set at one side of the clearing. She blinked to see so many creatures: dream-winged faerie maids and sharp-toothed nixies, a bone-white shadow inside a dark cloak, the wide-eyed stare of the banshee.
Music drifted above the tangled treetops—harp and drum and guitar twining together, sorrowful and joyous in equal measure. The Wild Hunt followed the melody down and landed in the center of the clearing.
At the far end stood a throne of vines and thorns, and upon it sat the Dark Queen. Her hair was smoke and obsidian, her gown starlight and cobwebs, and her eyes held the memory of countless centuries.
Brea swallowed, her throat dry with fear as the elfin knight set her on the mossy ground. Her legs trembled, and she looked down to see she was clad once more in a shimmer of a gown that clung to her like mist.
“Huntsman,” the queen said. “Have you brought me the betrayer?”
“I have, your majesty.” He made her a sweeping bow. “This maid is the one we scented, who led the humans directly to the tree of the golden apple.”
Brea’s skin prickled with fear, and she sucked in a painful breath. “I did not—”
“You.” The queen’s voice cut like frost. She leaned forward and pointed at Brea with one long, pale finger. “I should strike you down where you stand for aiding my enemies.”
Brea had never meant to lead the humans anywhere, but only to escape. Had she done something terrible, all unwitting?
“Forgive me, your majesty,” she whispered.
A bright-eyed, tangle-haired sprite tumbled into the clearing before the Dark Queen’s throne. Brea recognized him—Puck, who spoke in riddles and runes. Standing before the queen, he made his ruler a flourishing bow, one foot pointed on the velvet green mosses.
“Your majesty,” he said. “Might I speak?”
The queen let out a sigh, the sound like a wind stirring the empty branches of winter oaks.
“Puck,” she said. “You have the freedom of the courts, much as it may displease my mood. Say your piece.”
“Yon maid, all unwitting, played but a part in a quest. She does not deserve death—and there are few enough fey folk that her loss, though a small thing, would be felt within the realm.”
Brea sent him a grateful glance. She did not know why Puck was defending her. Perhaps it had to do with their prior meeting and his cryptic words of fate and future.
“Banishment, then, shall be her punishment,” the queen declared. “To the Shadowlands.”
The denizens of the court shivered, and Brea felt her heart catch. Even hiding within her watery dwelling, she’d heard of that dire place where souls wandered, lost and alone, into eternity.
Though the words might stumble on her tongue, she must plead her case.
“My queen.” She bowed as best she could on her unsteady legs. “I beg you, do not banish me. Surely there is some way to mend the harm I might have done?”
The gathered fey folk whispered, and Brea was glad she could not hear what they said. No doubt they suggested dire and dreadful remedies.
“Perchance there might be.” The queen narrowed her eyes and gestured. “Bard Thomas, attend.”
A man stepped from the shadows and Brea stared at him in surprise. Another half-magical human like herself, perhaps? But no—there was something ghostly about him. If he’d been human once, he was no longer. Silver strands ran through his brown hair, and his eyes were wise and weary beyond measure.
“Yes, my queen?”
“How best might I use this youngling in service to the court?”
The man turned, his gaze brushing past Puck and then resting upon Brea for a long moment. Sparks and promises flashed in his eyes, and she did not know whether to be hopeful or afraid.
“Send her into t
he human world,” he said at last. “There, she might sway mortals to stray into the Realm. She can repay her debt by helping ensure that humans will cross over to the Dark Court when they enter the game of Feyland.”
The queen gave a single shake of her head. “I mislike having to sacrifice yet another of my handmaidens simply to send a near-useless creature into the mortal realm. Your counsel pleases me not, bard.”
“Milady.” Puck sprang into the air and hovered there. “Though centuries have passed, the girl is part human, and still connected with the mortal world. I may be able to slip her through the gateway without further bloodshed. And if not”—he gave an elaborate shrug—“then do with her as you please.”
“Your magic is fickle,” the queen said.
“Yet you know it cannot be forced to do your bidding.” Puck laughed and flipped in the air, landing once again on the soft ground. “I will attempt to send the maid through.”
The queen leaned back, the pale moonlight illuminating her beauty. Overhead, stars sprinkled the edges of the sky, and a night wind stirred the oak leaves into whispering. Brea’s nerves hummed as she awaited her fate. Her heartbeat pounded within her chest until she was nearly dizzy from the rhythm, yet she remained quiet and still, as she had learned to do in her watery form. Speaking on her own behalf would do little good, and she did not want to tip the balance of the queen’s decision unfavorably.
At length the queen beckoned to Brea, who found she could not ignore the summons. She came forward, then sank to her knees on the velvety mosses before the throne.
“I lay a geas upon you, youngling,” the Dark Queen said. “From now until the summer wanes, you are charged with marking and leading as many humans as you might toward the magic of the Dark Court so that the Realm may be replenished. Should you return without success, the Shadowlands will be your new home.”
Brea bowed her head. There was no arguing, and no agreement. When the queen spoke, her word was law. Still, this sentence was a reprieve. If she carried out the queen’s bidding well enough, she might escape dire banishment to the Shadowlands.
Chronicle Worlds: Feyland Page 28
