17. Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Kat
The roar of the waterfall is so tremendous I don’t hear Tailor until he grabs my elbow. “Kat!”
“We need to get over the bridge!” I mouth back at him.
His spectacles are sprayed with water, droplets running down the strained lines of his face. He does not protest further, however, and follows me as I swing onto the rope bridge. It sways wildly. I crouch where I am, holding the rope, balancing on the wood planks that keep me suspended in the towering green trees. Once it is steady enough, I start walking. Tailor is so clumsy on the bridge that my lungs nearly end up lodged in my throat.
We do not fall, thankfully.
We slip into the abandoned guardhouse, high in the trees, that we use for Revar Court raids. Tonight though, it isn’t abandoned.
Four forms huddle in the darkness.
A man and his three sons.
I sigh in relief. They all got out. We don’t have to hunt through the Court for them.
“This way,” I whisper. “We’ve got to move fast.”
Tailor grabs my elbow again. “Where is the cart?”
“Not here. Long story. I—” My words die as two of the sons, who look to be about sixteen and twelve, carefully lift their father to his feet. Or, rather, his foot . He is missing half of his left leg and balances between a crutch and a boy. Did a fae do that to him? Was it recent—could I have prevented it if I’d come sooner?
Of all the raids where I didn’t have my cart!
“He won’t be able to walk the entire stretch of Path,” Tailor hisses.
His unspoken concern lingers in the silence: We might have to leave him behind.
I grind my teeth together. We are not leaving this man behind. We are not separating him from his sons. All of them have waited long enough for their freedom. I won’t be responsible for their separation. I look at Tailor fiercely. “We will make it.”
He meets my gaze, and there is resignation there. He always tries to make me more cautious. It will never work.
He would strangle me if he knew my current . . . situation with Prince Rahk.
“We’ve got to get him across the bridge,” I say to the eldest of the boys. The youngest looks to be only four or five, and hides behind his brother. “And down a lot of stairs.”
The oldest boy links his father’s arm around his neck. “It will be slow, but we can do it.”
“See?” I say to Tailor.
Then we’re off.
It takes us nearly an hour to get across the bridge and climb down a series of stairs and ladders to get to flat ground again—without getting caught. We are soaking from the waterfall, but I will gladly accept it for the camouflage of its roar.
I make everyone stop and slather mud from the riverbank over their feet before I lead us onto the Path. Just in case someone tracks us. And just in case my ollea has worn off.
“I’ll see you at the next raid.” I give a casual wave as I take the little boy’s hand.
Tailor waves back and then slips away.
Every time we say goodbye, I always fear it is our last.
“Follow me,” I say, tugging the little boy after me into the Wood. He starts crying, snot dribbling from his nose.
“Be brave, sonny,” says the father. He tries to hide his wince as he leans between his older sons. “We’re almost free.”
I crouch down before the boy and pull aside my mask to give him a smile. “Want to ride on my back?”
His little wet face turns to interest almost immediately.
“Climb on!” I say—and then freeze in cold-blooded horror.
There, in the mud, is a fresh pair of giant footprints. Coming from this Path.
Someone followed me. From the human world.
Grubby little hands wrap around my shoulders. I hike the boy onto my back and pull my mask into place. I keep my observation to myself, but my voice is overly bright when I say, “It’s time to move fast now! Stay right behind me so you don’t accidentally step off the Path!”
My heart thunders in my chest as I set a vigorous pace. The boy on my back grows heavier, and his brothers and father are all panting hard soon, but I don’t dare slow.
I’m getting them out of here.
Even if it kills me, I’m getting them out of here.
“You’re going to be the reason they die,” the wind whispers.
I tighten my fists on the boy’s ankles and grit my teeth.
No one is dying tonight. Not on my watch.
With every step, I miss Bartholomew. I curse Agatha and Lord Boreham. I curse my mother for being swallowed by this wretched forest, and my father for giving up on her. I curse them both for dying and leaving me behind.
At one point, I glance back to find one of the boy’s feet dangerously near the edge of the Path. “I said to stay right behind me!” I snap, too harshly. He leaps back as though I’ve bitten him. I gentle my tone. “I’m sorry—it is just that you cannot see the Path, and if you step off of it, there is nothing I can do to help you. So please, try to walk exactly where I walk.”
I always make sure to stay exactly in the middle of the Path.
After a few more silent moments, where the only sounds are the strange whispers of the Wood, I crane my neck to call behind me, “We’re coming upon a troll. Just ignore him. He cannot hurt you.”
The words are hardly out of my mouth before a gravelly voice booms, “Who goes there?”
“Ymer the Indefatigable! You are looking . . . indefatigable today,” I call toward the troll. This Path doesn’t take us as close to him as the last, but he still regards me with slitted yellow eyes.
“Small elf,” he growls. “Ymer will flay your skin into fine layers and roast them on open flames!”
“You are adorable,” I reply with a grin. “Maybe I can bring you some bones one of these days. To make your bread with.”
“Elf lies, as elves always have since the ancient days,” Ymer growls, smacking his club against his leathery hand.
“It’s alright,” I whisper to the little boy who buries his face in my shoulder. I increase our pace and leave Ymer’s grumbling behind us.
Then, suddenly, we’re free of the Wood.
We spill out into the stretch of farmland. Sweat pours from the older brothers and their father, their matching tawny hair wet. I set the child down. He runs at once to his father, who smiles down at him and praises him warmly for being so brave.
I press a hand to the stitch in my side, breathing hard, counting the seconds—knowing we cannot stop, but as desperate as them for just one moment.
“You’ve got to keep going,” I finally gasp, bent and gripping my knees. “I’m so sorry, but you must keep going. That direction is the city. Don’t stop until you get there.” I give them directions to find Mary, who will be waiting for them outside the city’s cathedral with their sacks of provision, since I can no longer make them. I gave her all my allowance before I left for this very purpose.
“Saints bless you,” says the man.
They always thank me. I wish they wouldn’t. Their thanks always settles uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach. I stay where I am, watching the four of them continue despite their exhaustion. Every time we part ways, I am acutely aware of all that I long to give them. And all that I cannot.
It never feels like enough.
But there is yet one more thing I can do for this family.
With a grim set of my mouth, I force my wooden legs into motion. I find my cart, hidden in the bushes, and pull a crossbow and a length of rope out from a hidden compartment. I don’t know how much time I have, and I refuse to give voice to the fear humming in the back of my throat. I duck back into the Wood to set my trap.
I pick the first oak I come to on the Path—they are friendly to humans—and scurry up its boughs. My hands scrape against rough bark, my fingernails straining as I dig them into bark and hoist myself up. I unfasten the crossbow from my belt and set it carefully on one of the branches, aimed where I will direct my quarry.
I take my ollea smeared boots and stomp them deep into the ground right next to where I want this pursuer to walk. The length of rope I coat in dirt and half-bury across the path. I leave several different lengths to guarantee my pursuer won’t miss it. Then I fasten them carefully to my crossbow with a few special knots I picked up for this exact sort of thing. I’m desperately careful not to trigger it as I climb down.
If anyone steps on these ropes, the trap I’ve rigged is sensitive enough that it’ll shoot them.
Then I’m forcing my quaking limbs back into a run.
It is a long stretch of misery before I finally make it back to the prince’s estate. I wash myself off in the creek quickly, the cold turning my pulsing limbs numb. Then I change clothes, shake out my hair, and climb back into my window.
I yank the blanket over my head and rub it into my hair, hoping to disguise any Faerieland scents before—
Voices from the hallway.
I stiffen.
“Nat!” comes Edvear’s voice.
Dread pools in my gut.
“I’ve got it,” growls Rahk in return. “Don’t wake him.”
“This is his job . This is what we hired him for.”
My door is flung open and candlelight flickers into my dark space. I wince, pretending to wake up. “Sir?”
A short silhouette with curly hair and goat horns fills the space. “The master requires your service.”
I get up, rubbing my eyes. “I thought the master was at a ball. Has he come home earl—”
The words halt on my tongue. There, sitting on the foot of his bed, is Prince Rahk. He still wears his ball finery, but his hair is in disarray, his boots coated in mud. There is a streak of dirt across his forehead, and a long cloak is clasped at his throat. Not the cloak he wore to the ball.
A stripe of crimson soaks through a torn sleeve.
Every drop of blood drains from my face.
Rahk looks up from his wound and sees me. He immediately glares at his steward. “Edvear, leave him alone. He looks as though he’s never seen blood before. Go back to bed, Nat.”
But Edvear presses a bowl with rags into my hands.
“Edvear—” growls Rahk.
“He needs to learn.”
“I will learn,” I say quickly, forcing the words out around the horror choking my throat. “What happened?”
“It’s not your place to ask questions,” snaps Edvear.
“Sorry.” I set the bowl down on the vanity, going to the basin to pour water into the bowl. I wet a cloth and wring it out. When I approach the prince, he’s still glaring at his steward.
“Take my boots and make sure they get cleaned,” he orders Edvear.
“I can do that, master,” I say quickly. “Once I’m done—”
“Edvear can do it.”
Edvear bristles but picks up the filthy shoes that the prince kicks off. He’s gone a second later, leaving me alone with Rahk.
My hands shake as I press the cloth to the wound.
“You can go back to bed,” he says quietly. “I will handle this.”
There is nothing I’d rather do! But I need to confirm what happened . . . even though I already know. Even though I knew the moment I saw those footprints in the Revar Court. “Please, master, I wish to learn.”
He sighs. “Very well. The first step is to get better access to the wound.”
A second later, he’s stripped off his cloak, doublet, and linen tunic, until candlelight gleams off the chiseled edges of his bare torso. Blood runs down the toned muscles of his massive arm. I swallow and desperately hope he takes my discomfort as unease with the wound. I step closer and dab the wound with my cloth until it’s stained red.
“Does it hurt much?” I ask.
“It is only a shallow wound.”
“Will it need stitches?”
He shakes his head. “Even if it did, I wouldn’t make you do it.”
“I would do a rotten job of it, Master.”
He chuckles, though his mind seems to drift elsewhere, his amusement fading into consternation. “It would be foolish of me to expect more from you.”
Silence falls. I dab away the blood from the torn flesh. He’s right—it’s only a nick, really. Like an arrow came right for his heart, but he dodged it just in time, and it only grazed his biceps.
I am going to throw up.
“I will finish,” the prince says, uncharacteristically gentle. He must have noticed my face changing colors.
But I still haven’t gotten the information I need. I shake my head firmly and command my stomach to settle itself. I turn over different questions in my head, until I finally land on: “What sort of person stabs someone at a ball?”
His eyebrows shoot up, and I think he might be suppressing his amusement. He leans closer to me, his breath tickling my ear as he whispers conspiratorially: “Only the blackest of fiends.”
“In Harbright?” I squeak, pulling back as fast as I can so his nose doesn’t detect any traitorous scents lingering in my hair.
He’s smirking again. Enjoying my naivete. But he doesn’t offer an explanation.
It could just be a coincidence, I think desperately.
“I assumed humans at a ball would be no match for a fae prince,” I say.
“Your curiosity won’t be sated, will it?”
“No, master, but I can shut up if you like.”
His smile is quick to vanish. “Did Edvear not bring the bandages? There are some in my study in one of the drawers.”
“I will fetch them at once.” I am all too glad to put some distance between us. My legs ache, but I refuse to let it show as I take a candle and hurry from the room.
The light from my candle trembles erratically as I open the study door and go to the desk. I curse my fumbling fingers as I struggle to get the first drawer open. No bandages. I open the second one.
I keep glancing up while I search, expecting the prince to suddenly be in the doorway, a catlike smile revealing long canines.
It might not be him, Kat. You have no proof.
I yank open the bottom drawer. Bandages roll toward the back of it from the motion. I grab my candle and bring it closer to locate my quarry at the back of the drawer.
A face stares back at me.
I swallow my scream and leap backward. The candle hits the ground. The room pitches into black.
I stand there, pressed against a bookshelf, my hand pressed to my heaving lungs.
That . . . that was my mask.
The one I left in the Nothril Court.
So it’s true. His claim that he is here as an emissary—it’s a lie. His true purpose is to hunt the Ivy Mask. Me .
I shot Prince Rahk of the Nothril Court.
He followed me. He’s hunting me.
He’s going to kill me.
“Oh saints,” I whisper, staring at the splattered candlewax hardening on the floor. “I’m trapped.”
I’m stuck in this position with no way out. Unless I marry Lord Boreham—which won’t protect me from Prince Rahk anyway.
It is the thought of Bartholomew that brings my panicked heartbeat under control.
She is out there somewhere, and all I have to do is survive here until my birthday. Then I can get her back. I’m only three weeks away. I can do it. I’ve already outsmarted the prince thrice now. He clearly doesn’t know I’m the Ivy Mask. My mission tonight was successful.
“It’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine.” I breathe the assurances under my breath as I collect the candle and fish out the bandages from the drawer, ignoring the mask.
All I have to do is keep going. This doesn’t truly change anything. I already knew Prince Rahk would kill me if he knew who I was. So everything is . . . basically the same.
I gather my composure, pulling back my shoulders, and march to the bedroom.
The prince sits where I left him, his black eyes regarding me leisurely as I approach his side. “You took a long time.”
“I burned out my candle by accident. It took me longer to find the bandages.”
He lifts his arm, allowing me to wrap the bandages around the injury. I use an ungodly amount of it just to span the size of his arm once. He moves suddenly.
I leap back, dropping the bandage. The prince’s gaze snaps to me. His other hand slows as he scratches his temple.
That was it—he was only scratching himself.
“Sorry—sorry!” I cry, mortified by my jumpiness.
Rahk leans down and picks up the fallen bandages. He returns them to my trembling hands. I quickly tie it off and step away. His attention seems to sharpen on me, his eyes scanning me to my toes and then back up. I hide my trembling hands behind my back.
“Not all of us are made for blood and guts,” he says, glancing between me and the bowl of pink water and soiled rags. “There is no shame in being upset at the sight of an injury.”
He thinks that is why I am unsettled?
“You’ve done well tonight, Nat,” he adds quietly. “You can return to bed.”
I give a half bow. “Thank you, my lord.”
I don’t wait a second longer, and barely keep myself from bolting straight to my room. Once I’m safely ensconced inside it, I listen to his footsteps as he strides out of the bedroom.
This changes nothing.
And changes everything .