Chapter 38
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
The journey to Tír na Dubh is quiet, uneventful. Aowen doesn’t say a single word during the ride to the luxbridge, as if some essential part of her has been carved away by her brother’s arrangement with Duke Cernunnos.
I feel as though I’m missing an essential part as well.
Lachlan was the first face I saw when I arrived in the Otherworld, and since then, I have barely spent a day outside his company. He left Tula for me, and while his kelpie is sweet and swift, she is a poor replacement.
Vesper flits from Aowen to me, nuzzling her small head into my neck. “Food. Brave food.”
Sweet of her to try to soothe me. And I would never be so rude as to say so out loud, but … She is also a poor replacement for Lachlan.
Aowen’s kelpie, Cuán, strolls into the luxbridge just before dawn breaks, and I close my eyes when Tula does the same. Vesper grips a few strands of my hair to hold herself in place.
When we come out the other side, all the color has been leached from the world. I blink a few times, fearing the luxbridge damaged my vision.
After several tries, I accept that it’s not me—it’s the land itself. The forest of skeletal trees is foggy and lifeless. Aowen waits by a grizzled black oak whose roots weave like tentacles through the loam, her scarlet cloak a fresh wound against the grey.
Cuán bobs his snout, pulling at the reins. Impatient to get moving again. I could not agree more.
Tír na Dubh has all the charm of a graveyard.
The atmosphere grows no livelier as the woods thin to reveal the outskirts of villages.
Cottages, pubs, and factories belch out austere fae dressed in drab blues and browns.
Wary glances and warier sneers slide our way, but mostly we inspire indifference.
Unexpected, given the four celestial knights of House Macán riding at our backs.
Led by Sir Dunne, they glisten in their white armour, so reminiscent of Lachlan that it is physically painful to look at them.
I wonder what he’s doing at this exact moment.
Have he and Desmond made it back to Tír na Strelle by now?
I try opening the diamrhán but either he’s too far away or he’s purposefully keeping it closed.
I should have asked more about the logistics of our connection while we were together.
Can he not contact me? Or is he choosing not to?
The uncertainty is nearly as torturous as this endless ride.
I flick Tula’s reins, trotting up beside Aowen and Cuán. “How much longer? This luxbridge seems much farther away from civilization than Tír na Lune’s.”
“Tír na Dubh has never been an easy place to access. I don’t think Sabre intends to change that any time soon.” Aowen’s hand trembles as she strokes Cuán’s neck.
“Have you been here before?”
“Never.” She surveys the spindly trees, the lack of greenery which I’m starting to suspect is not a seasonal issue.
“Is the entire territory like this?”
“Each territory feeds off the energy of its ruling family. Tír na Strelle is sparkling and abundant because that is how Desmond comports himself. Tír na Lune is cold and extravagant, like Torvil.”
Given this new piece of information, I’m not sure I want to meet Tír na Dubh’s duke. The man to whom either myself or Aowen will be married. Fear shivers down my spine.
“What will the territories be like once the monarchy has been restored?”
“They’ll maintain some of each House’s essence, but it will be tempered by whichever wins the crown.”
Wins me, she means.
When I become queen, will the kingdom mirror my energy? How would it manifest? A little silly, a little frivolous, a lot anxious, sweets for every meal.
I look around the village—a few shabby cottages, a dilapidated inn, a crumbling produce stand selling nothing but small, wrinkled potatoes—and I wonder whether an injection of Miss Charlotte Emilie Fitzroy into these depressed lands might not be such a bad thing.
House Macán in Tír na Strelle is a shimmering storybook castle overflowing with starlit gardens. House áine in Tír na Lune is a sharp-spired fortress of smoked glass bathed in frosty moonlight.
Both grand. Both imposing, in their way.
House Cernunnos is imposing, there’s no doubt of that.
But it has none of the grandeur of the other two.
The three-story black brick manor is a collection of lopsided chimneys and shoddy gables scattered across mist-shrouded moors.
As we approach, a woolly layer of clouds banishes the sunlight and a howling wind kicks up.
There is nothing around for miles save cold and damp and gloom.
Were it not for the manor’s size, one would never imagine it to be the home of a territory’s ruling House.
The cobblestone courtyard features a large, moss-covered statue of a formidable faerie man with ram’s horns curling back from his forehead.
“His great-grandfather.” Aowen answers my unasked question. “Daget Cernunnos.”
“Do all the Cernunnos family have horns like that?”
“Only the male heirs destined to become head of House.”
The howling intensifies and I realize it’s not the wind when a shadow takes form at the edge of the property. As it jaunts closer to our small party, Tula begins dancing beneath me, swishing her tail and clacking a hoof against the ground.
I try to soothe her, mimicking Lachlan’s low tones, but, as it turns out, I am also a poor substitute for everyone’s favorite honey-voiced knight.
As the shadow moves closer, I’m not sure even Lachlan could have soothed us.
A colossal, undead wolf prowls around the side of the house.
Half her skull is exposed, giving her a permanent grin full of sharp fangs from which a long, mottled gray tongue lolls. Her black fur is wet and matted in some places, worn completely away in others to reveal sinew and bone. Her eyes are bright yellow rings around glowing green pupils.
Her head jerks up when she notices us, and she releases another shrieking howl before breaking into a sprint.
Straight for us.
Tula and Cuán rear up, wild-eyed with terror, and it’s all Aowen and I can do to keep them from bolting across the moors. Sir Dunne shouts commands and there’s a steel-sharp symphony of swords unsheathing.
The undead wolf pounds closer and closer, her skull’s grin making her look absurdly friendly despite her petrifying appearance.
She’s rounding the statue when a deep, familiar voice booms across the courtyard.
“Skadi! Heel!”
The wolf skids to a halt, her skeletal paws scrabbling on the stones before she turns and lopes toward a small door beneath the staircase of the manor’s entrance.
A single figure emerges, ducking down beneath the jamb, then stretching to his full height. He may be the tallest biped I have ever seen in person, even without the horns. As soon as I catch sight of him, the ring warms a little.
He approaches slowly but with purpose, and aside from his zombified wolf, not a single valet, courtier, nor knight have joined to welcome us.
“Stand down, sirs,” he warns the celestial knights. “There’s nothing Skadi loves more than cracking open suits of armour to pluck out the juicy bits.” There is no humour in his tone. “Trained her myself.”
Sir Dunne pales, especially when Skadi lowers her head and burbles out a growl. Every sword is immediately resheathed.
Sabre turns to Aowen and me. “Lady Macán, Miss Fitzroy, welcome to Tír na Dubh. Come, dinner is ready in the salon.”
And with that perfunctory greeting, he turns back toward the manor, pulls something from his pocket that looks suspiciously like a femur, and hurls it across the moors. Skadi bounds after it.
Aowen and I share a disquieted glance before dismounting. She hands the kelpies to Sir Dunne, who asks, “Would you like us to accompany you inside, my lady?”
“We’ll be fine.”
The knight blows out a relieved breath, and Aowen tracks Sabre as he enters the manor, not bothering to wait for us.