The Iron Sword (The Fae War Chronicles Book 1) (14 page)

“The second attack was closer to Darkhill, on the Baenswold Moors to the south of the Mordland Woods.”

“Titania’s kingdom, that’s to the west?” I asked.

“The south and west,” Ramel replied. He held out one palm and drew an imaginary line. “I’ll get you a proper map so you can study. The Bright Court’s domain starts just south of Queensport, but to the west of the Edhyre Mountains. The Darinwel River runs most true to the border, besides the markers.”

“Markers?”

“Stone markers, set up back when there were still accords, sometime around when your Queen Elizabeth was alive.”

“So,” I said, putting together the map in my head, “To the North, that’s where the Great Gate used to be?”

“Yes. There were really no borders then, but today it is slightly in our domain. Not that it matters,” he added darkly. “And the North, that is where the Enemy bides his time. On the Baenswold Moors, there were more of the creatures, some of them like the one you killed, Tess, and then others that no one could rightly describe. The knights found this time that flaming arrows worked better against them, and they had the Vaelanbrigh with them. That was, I think, the point when he became the Queen’s favorite.”

My stomach tightened at that, for a reason I couldn’t quite understand. I thought of Finnead, standing straight and still beside the moonbeam-clothed Queen.

“He brought her back the head of a Deadlands creature,” Ramel continued, ignoring the look that I was certain had flashed across my face at the mention of Finnead. “A hideous thing, but a handsome battle-prize. And he put Arentha, the wounded knight, on his mount, and fought his way out on foot so that she could die in peace among friends, not on the battlefield with the smell of blood still in her throat.”

“Arentha,” I repeated. “There are female knights?”

Ramel nodded, balancing his blade point-down on the floor. “A handful. That is why the Queen took the loss hard, and sent the Vaelanbrigh to find the half-blood child.”

“And the third death?” I asked.

“Nearly on the borders of Darkhill itself, just before the border of the Royal Wood. The Vaelanseld barely escaped, and he could not bring the wounded with him.” Ramel’s eyes darkened. “They found no body to bury.”

I shuddered. And then, with the slow clarity of flame catching hold of a candle-wick, the idea that had been wriggling in the back of my head made itself known. “Ramel,” I said slowly, “if this happens again…if the knight can survive the ride back to Darkhill…or if I could ride out fast enough to them…” I turned my face to Ramel, a small smile curving my mouth. “I can take it out. I can touch it. These arrows they’re using, they won’t hurt me any more than a sharp edge would in my own world.” My smile grew a little. “They could be saved.”

Ramel tilted his head slightly, an answering smile forming on his lips. “How your eyes shine with that idea,” he murmured. “That’s brilliant. I doubt anyone has thought of that yet. Surprises and surprises.”

He trailed off, and I realized I had leaned forward with the passion of my new idea, and now Ramel leaned in close as well and before I knew what was happening there was an electrifying heat near my lips and Ramel’s mouth was pressed against mine and my mind stuttered and blinked, shutting out coherent thought in favor of savoring the taste of him, the alien sweetness and the strain of mortal boyishness on his lips. And then he drew back suddenly, taking a ragged breath.

“Sorry,” he said.

I looked at him and after a moment regained my ability to speak, my lips still tingling from the electric-shock feeling of kissing a Sidhe. “Don’t apologize. You’re not sorry.” My voice came out slightly raspy.

He grinned roguishly. “You’re right, as usual, my dear. I’m not.” He winked at me. “I couldn’t resist. And now I have bragging rights.”

I narrowed my eyes sharply. “Bragging rights?” I heard the bite in my words.

Ramel raised one eyebrow. “Well, of course. I was the first to steal a kiss from the pretty little
doendhine
, the first mortal to grace the Unseelie Court for five hundred years.” But then he winked again and I knew he was only joking. I rolled my eyes at him.

“Can we spar again?”

“If you like,” said Ramel, still grinning cheekily.

“Don’t go as easy on me this time,” I said as we stood, even though I could already feel the soreness building in my arm. When I got back to my room, I decided, I would test out my sword in my right hand. My arm had stopped aching, and it just felt sort of rubbery and weak. Another surprise to add to my arsenal, I thought with a small smile as we assumed the ready stance.

“Ready?” I asked Ramel.

“Always,” he replied with a roguish grin, and then I thought of nothing else but the bright flash and clang of our swords as they came together.

Chapter 14

A
fter Ramel left me at my door, I slipped inside and lit the candles in the wall-sconces. The shower in this room flowed into a claw-footed bathtub, which I found immensely charming, and I planned to test it out. But first, I slipped my right arm out of my sling, hissing as I flexed my wrist. Sore still, but no more sore than my legs after a particularly long, hard run. I unsheathed my sword with my left hand, made a few passes, and then carefully transferred the blade to my right hand. Sharp pain immediately shot up my arm, but I managed to keep my grip, resting the blade point-down on the floor. I dragged over the chair from my desk with my left hand, and sat down, my sword to the outside of my right leg. Biting my lip in concentration, I forced myself to raise the sword until my wrist was fully flexed, and then lowered it slowly again to the floor. It hurt, but I managed to lift it six more times before my wrist froze with stiffness. I was sweating again, and my arm throbbed, but I felt a twinge of satisfaction as I sheathed my sword.

I took full advantage of the claw-footed bathtub to soothe my aching muscles, luxuriating in the steaming-hot water until I lost track of time and almost fell asleep. After three years of living with a roommate, I enjoyed the solitude of my own room, my own small corner of the world. I wrapped myself in a towel and wandered around the chamber. My room, unlike Molly’s old room, was not decorated with tapestries. Instead, mine had delicate paintings, done in a style that reminded me of Renaissance art just as the architecture of the Great Hall reminded me of a Gothic cathedral. One painting depicted what looked like a May-pole celebration, with Sidhe ladies in flowing gowns and flowers in their hair. The gathering was in a green rolling field, in the silver of twilight. I peered closer in interest: they were mounted on creatures that looked like horses, but I could see by the details that they were subtly different, the faery-mounts. For one, they were colors that I had never seen in a horse: the majority of them were dark colors, because I supposed that was the general trend in the Unseelie Court. But the dark faery-mounts shone with deep lustrous blue and green, and the paler horses—ones that would have been a dark, dappled gray if they were mortal horses—showed pale azure and mossy green in the lighter parts of their coats. The faery-mounts looked lighter than horses I’d seen in our world, slimmer in the body with delicate legs, but I had no doubt that these Fae creatures could be as fierce as lions. I wondered if the knights trained war-horses.

At the center of the picture, nearest the May-pole, was the Queen, recognizable even in the painting. She rode a mount as black as a starless night sky. A pale disk hovered above her head, much like halos in religious artwork, and she still wore the circlet with the star-gem. But something about her face was different. She was
smiling
, and there was a graceful beauty in her limbs that made me think she was going to dance as soon as she slipped down from her saddle. Riding beside her was a dark-haired knight who looked vaguely familiar. I thought for a moment, and then I realized that it was the Vaelanmavar. His hair was shorter, and he looked younger too, wearing a red tunic and astride a dapple-blue mount.

I stood looking at the painting for so long that my hair dried from my bath, and still I felt as though I had to
learn
something from the painting. Why had the Queen been so happy and beautiful and full of life then? Was the threat of Malravenar truly enough to transform the lovely Queen from the painting into the cold and terrifying Sidhe who had combed through my mind with razor-sharp claws? After examining the painting for a while longer, I recognized Allene, riding in the Queen’s party. Her face was grave but still light and beautiful. The largest change I could see was her eyes. When she had tended me, her eyes had been, for the most part, weighted with an unspoken sadness. The skillful artist managed to convey joy through her eyes in the painting.

Finally I stepped away from the painting and got dressed, stretching my arm. The heat of the bath had loosened my muscles well. As I pulled on my shirt, I found myself wishing that I had come to the Court in happier times…in the times before the High Code. It was novel and new, being treated like a celebrity; but as I glanced over at the painting again I thought that I would have much rather have gone Maying with the Unseelie Queen and her Court, rather than watch them prepare to battle an evil that threatened to destroy their world. The beauty of the Court, the arches of the Great Hall and the windows in the gymnasium all struck me again as hollow, an exterior held together by threads of desperation and far-off hope and resignation. They were putting on a brave face, and doing what they could, but the more I talked to Ramel and Bren and Ronan, the more I thought that they knew their chances were slim. I wondered what I would have seen if I had been able to look into the mind of Queen Mab, if she cherished the memories of riding with her ladies and knights about the May-pole.

I discovered a special peg on the side of the wardrobe for my sword-belt. After hanging the blade carefully, I sat on the bed and wondered what to do for the rest of the day. Then I noticed a stack of books on my desk that hadn’t been there that morning, and a handwritten note tacked to the top cover.

I thought you would like to know more about our world
, the note read in precise calligraphy. The handwriting curved gracefully but there were no superfluous flourishes. It was signed by Bren. And then it said,
PS- These books are really not supposed to leave the record-hall so I would appreciate it if you don’t destroy them. And I told Scholar that you would be more than happy to update his records on the mortal world with a personal touch.

I smiled at the post-script and set the note aside, pulling out the chair to the desk. It was surprisingly comfortable, for being a wooden chair. I pulled the first book from the pile, a hefty volume bound in deep red leather. The title, embossed in gold on the front, read
A History of Mortal-Fae Relations
. The book under that was
Before the High Code: The Golden Age of Mortal Visitation.
I opened it, expecting to sneeze from dislodged dust, but the book was obviously well-cared for by a curator or librarian. Bren had also left me a book called
On Court Etiquette
, apparently written for the young Sidhe who had never been to Court. I surmised they had a tradition of debuts, like the American South or the Victorian age in England. The last large, thin book contained a series of well-worn maps.

Liam had always teased me about being bookish. I’d curl up in a chair and read for hours, escaping from our less-than-perfect life into the adventures of heroes and heroines, dragon-slayers and detectives and lost princesses. I smiled a little. I went through a phase when I was seven in which I insisted that I was a misplaced princess, the heir to a throne of a fantastic country. I traced the edge of the book-cover with one finger. Time had left me with only a few clear memories of my father, and one of them was sitting on his lap, listening to him read me my favorite books. My father played along for a little bit in my princess phase, using it as an excuse to take my dearly beloved training wheels off my bike, telling me that princesses didn’t use training wheels. He didn’t seem to mind that I thought I was adopted and wanted to be whisked away to a different world. I smiled grimly. There had always been that longing, in the deepest parts of me, to escape from it all, especially after my father died. Sadness hung over our lives like forgotten Christmas lights in July, when you pass them so often they seem ordinary, and it’s only when someone else points out the wreath on your front door that you truly see it.

I decided to read the books in the order that they’d been stacked, just in case Bren had meant something by it. So I lit the little desk-lamp from one of the candles on the wall, and settled down into my chair, opening the red cover of
On Fae-Mortal Relations
. The Fae style of writing, I discovered, was much like their formal style of speaking: a bit stiff and archaic in places, and sometimes there were words in the Sidhe tongue that I guessed had no real translation into mortal words. I found myself wishing that I had a pen and paper to take notes, and I explored the drawers of the desk, finding a small stack of loose-leaf paper and, of all things, a silver ballpoint pen. The pen sat heavily between my fingers, and I supposed it was at least sterling silver. It wrote in thick black ink. I covered a whole page front and back, making my handwriting as small as I was able, before I closed the cover of the book and moved on to
Before the High Code: A History of Mortal Visitation
. I didn’t take as many notes reading that one, because it had a lot of names and dates stretching back all the way to before the Renaissance. There was a gap for a few hundred years before the Renaissance, and then the dates stretched back into what I guessed was probably ancient Egyptian times, and the Greeks and Romans. While some of that was interesting, it didn’t seem to be what I needed to know exactly at this moment, so I marked my page using the thick ribbon sewn onto the spine of the book and set it aside.

Bren came to fetch me for the evening meal, and afterward I studied more. I practiced for a while with my sword, using both hands, before sliding into bed, exhausted.

My days fell into a pattern. In the morning, I stretched out the stiffness of the night, warming up my muscles with a few practice sword-passes. I sat on the edge of my bed and strengthened my right arm again until it ached, and then Ramel knocked on my chamber door to take me to lessons. We drilled in the morning, took a few hours’ break for the midday meal, then again in the afternoon. I showered after that, and studied until evening meal. Bren took me to see the Scholars a few times. They were serene dark-haired men, not at all the wrinkled little librarians that I had pictured. I sat in a velvety green chair in the Great Library and patiently answered all their questions about the mortal world. Part of me wondered why they didn’t ask Molly about our world, but then another part of me remembered that Faeortalam was Molly’s world now. As much as I wanted to see her, I forced myself not to seek her out, and filled my days with learning and as much physical exertion as I could handle, going to bed each night exhausted. It helped keep my mind off Molly, and the small bud of homesickness burgeoning in my chest, but no matter how hard I worked myself during the day, each night brought dreams of Finnead. Each night I saw his face in my mind, in the last blurred moment before slipping into sleep.

As hard as I tried to fight it, I remained fascinated by him, and the stories told by the other Sidhe did nothing to dispel my curiosity. To the Court at large, Finnead was a mystery too. They all told tales about his bravery and prowess in battle, about his refusal to marry a lady of the Court despite Mab’s urgings, and his penchant for self-punishment. He took on the most dangerous, difficult missions, and the way most of the stories were told, he laughed in the face of peril. I remembered the feral grin and the glint in his eye as he drew his dagger before the
garrelnost
, and I believed it.

My relationship with Ramel progressed into a sort of brother-sister bond. Though in the back of my mind the memory of his kiss lingered, I enjoyed his light-hearted company enough to overlook that forward move. To my great relief, Ramel told no one of the kiss, or at least no one that spread gossip at the Court. I respected him for that, and I suspected he enjoyed teaching me sword-play far too much to sully our blossoming friendship with romantic involvement. He was too perceptive for his own good, though, and I was sure that he could see the longing in my eyes when someone spoke of Finnead. But he never spoke of it to me.

I wondered what the Sidhe were teaching Molly, and whether she knew of her sacrificial role in the defeat of Malravenar. I asked Bren if there were any books on the Iron Sword, and she looked at me balefully but slipped me a slim volume that I smuggled back to my room. I was still working my way through the books that she had given me earlier, taking careful notes and absorbing as much information as I could.

The book on Court etiquette was an easier read than the history, and I felt like it was imminently more useful as well. Apparently it is a grave insult to look the Queen in the eye unless told to do so, and the same courtesy was usually extended to the Named Knights. I raised my eyebrows at that one, remembering Finnead’s intense gaze before my ordeal with Mab. I took more notes, making a double-sided cheat-sheet that I could reference quickly in case I got myself into any more sticky social situations. By the time I finished with the etiquette book, I had to refill the little oil well on my desk-lamp, and then I spread out the map-book.

On a night about three weeks after my arrival in Court, I was studying the geography of Western Faeortalam, the Mordland Forest and Edhyre Mountains in particular, when a knock came at my door. Except it was less of a knock, and more of a
ping
. I frowned and blinked a few times to refocus my eyes, stretching my legs as I stood. I opened the door a crack, saying, “Who is it?”

The passageway was empty. I shrugged and turned back to my desk, shutting the door behind me and drawing the lock just for peace of mind. And sitting right on the middle of my map-book was a very familiar, very bright little glow.

“Wisp!” I said, grinning.

“Tess-mortal,” Wisp said, bowing in very courtly fashion. He hovered a few inches over the map-book as I sat down again.

“It’s good to see you,” I said, holding out my hand. Wisp alighted on my flat palm, barely heavier than a dandelion.

“I did not expect to see you in the Court of the Sidhe,” Wisp said.

“Well,” I replied, “I didn’t really expect to be here, myself.”

Wisp settled down, sitting cross-legged. “You are in grave danger here, Tess-mortal.”

“I know. The Queen already tested me. She said that I’m bound here until I perform some type of duty for her.”

At that, Wisp whizzed out of my hand and flew in agitated circles for a minute. Then he landed on my shoulder. I felt one of his tiny hands grip my hair for balance. “Not from the Queen, not from the Dark Lady, may the shadows bow down before her.”