Chapter 53
Chapter
Fifty-Three
We wait for Vesper to return, then leave the protection of the tree hollow to venture out into the Eldergrove.
Between breaks in the canopy, stars wink within a black velvet sky.
There’s only the slimmest crescent of a waning moon tonight, and the golden shimmer that coats so much of the Otherworld plant life is much fainter.
I can barely see twenty paces ahead of me.
Treacherous, but it means we will be harder to see as well.
Vesper saw smoke a quarter of the way up one of the Brumalts during her scouting trip. It’s a multiple-hour walk from our oak, and though we’re not certain who it is, we have a two-thirds chance of finding an ally. No better or worse than any other direction we could be walking, really.
The Eldergrove is eerily silent; no call of night birds nor scampering of nocturnal creatures. It’s as if the Eternal Mother decided to bless the dukes and their hunting beasts with as little distraction as possible.
The only sound is the gentle rush of water—likely mountain runoff in the form of a creek or small river—toward which we’re walking.
Aowen doesn’t say a word as she clomps ahead of me through the underbrush, around thick oaks and skinny birches.
Old Charlotte might have spent this entire long walk worrying that her reticence meant she was still upset with me over the diamrhán—and yes, I realize now what a stupid, stupid decision that was.
Why did Lachlan not talk me out of it? It would be incredibly useful to be able to communicate.
But maybe he wasn’t thinking any more clearly than I was at the time.
Maybe the thought of keeping the connection was just as unbearable for him.
Anyway, new Charlotte has decided to take Aowen at her word. She said it was alright. And if she was lying about that? Well, it’s not my responsibility to read her mind, is it?
Still, I cannot help but wish she’d talk to me, if only to stave off the boredom. We’ve been walking for hours. Vesper hangs back with me, but she’s not much of a conversationalist. And she keeps flying off to get a pixie’s-eye view of our route.
I am actually grateful to be a little bored, it’s better than—
Something crashes through the woods to our left, and Aowen breathes out a soft curse before pulling me behind a fallen log half covered in tiny mushroom ladders.
“Friend or foe?” I search the dark sky for Vesper, who disappeared again a few minutes ago. Maybe she can see who—or what—it is.
A second crash sounds to our right. There is only one duke who has more than one hunting animal by his side.
“Foe,” Aowen whispers simultaneously with my, “Torvil.”
We peek around the log to find a small party gathered in a clearing about a hundred paces away.
In the forefront, two large, white-maned heads lap from a puddle—Mortis and Anguis.
I stutter out a breath, grateful for Aowen’s foresight with the púca piss.
We’re downwind right now, so hopefully they can’t smell anything.
Standing behind the báshounds are two figures. One is unmistakably Torvil, his pale locks a flare in the dark night. If the other figure is his second, then the man should be plainly visible in his silver armour. But he seems to have put on a dark, hooded cloak?
A third figure joins them. Wearing shiny, silver armour. Torvil’s actual second.
Torvil’s cheating; he’s brought in a third player.
“What should we do?” I move my lips as little as possible, barely letting the words come out. Those báshounds were bred to do one thing: hunt. I’m sure their hearing is incredibly keen.
“I’ll distract them,” Aowen whispers back. “And you run.”
“Are you mad?” It’s an effort to keep my voice low. “They’ll rip you to pieces.”
She slowly pulls the thorn from her belt loop. “Not if I rip them up first.”
“Aowen, no. If something happens to you, I am … I cannot survive this alone.”
She strokes a hand down my face. “Vesper will help you. And it would be an honor to die defending my queen.”
These stubborn fucking faeries. Since when did I ask anyone to die for me? “I forbid it.” Bone-deep panic forestalls my tears. “If I am your queen, then you must obey me.”
She pats my cheek, then kisses my temple. “Cute.” She picks up an acorn and, before I can make further protest, lobs it over the log. It lands in a pile of leaves, the soft crash apocalyptically loud. “Now, run.”
I sprint away from the log as she steps over it. “Oi! Over here, assholes.”
I hear Torvil snarl, “Find Charlotte,” followed by the thump of báshound paws. Fortunately, they’ve decided to divide and conquer. Unfortunately, one is headed straight for me.
I run as fast as I can, but I don’t want to get too far away from Aowen. What if she’s overconfident? What if they hurt her and she needs my help?
My best option would be to get to higher ground, where the báshounds cannot reach me and I can gain a vantage point toward the clearing.
The beast behind me—I have no idea which one—is gaining. I’m not exactly being careful not to leave a trail. Branches snap around me, and my footprints sink into the dirt. But if I have to sacrifice something during this getaway, it won’t be speed.
The báshound pounds closer and up ahead, I spy a tall fir with dense branches that looks scalable.
I look over my shoulder to see how close he is, and … He’s right there.
It’s Anguis, not Mortis. No scar. He roars, probably to signal his brother.
I leap for the lowest branch, cutting my hands on the rough bark and tearing out needles as I pull myself up. My palms grow sticky with blood and sap, and the medicinal pine scent is cloying, but I keep going.
The tree shudders as Anguis slams into the trunk, and I nearly lose my footing. He attempts my upward route, but the branch snaps off beneath his paw. He snarls, then begins pacing and whining and howling beneath me.
I hug the trunk, clinging for dear life.
How embarrassing would it be to fall to my death after all this?
The novillum has certainly given me an advantage over my normal human body—I am not nearly as winded as I should be from that sprint, and the cuts on my hands are already healing—but my balance is still pure Charlotte.
I glance out toward the clearing. There’s no one there.
I find out why moments later when Torvil and his knight clank over to my tree with Mortis and a cursing, hissing Aowen.
The knight is hauling her by her braid. It’s hard to see in the dark, but she seems mostly unharmed outside a small cut on her cheekbone.
I cannot say the same about the knight, whose ear is a pulpy mess draining blood down his neck. Good for her.
“Charlotte, my queen!” Torvil calls up. “My apologies, dear one. We did not mean to frighten you. Come down and let me claim you, and this can all be over.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
If I do not come down, he’ll know I have no desire to be his queen.
But if I do come down, that’s the most probable outcome.
I cannot fight off him and his second and his báshounds.
Probably not even with Aowen’s help. And that’s not me being meek or weak-minded; it’s just a fact.
A few sparring lessons with Lachlan in the Eyrie do not a warrior make.
“Is that you, Your Grace? Oh, I’m so relieved!” Think, Charlotte, think. I pick my way down the branches, my mind whirring.
“Are you?” Torvil asks. “It took us longer to find you than it should have. We found your bracelet buried in the mud miles from here. What happened?”
I reach the lowest branch above the one torn away by Anguis. There is a good fifteen-foot drop to the ground.
Torvil sees my hesitation, then walks over and holds out his arms.
“Jump.” His violet eyes flash up at me. “I’ll catch you.”
Here goes nothing.
I sit down on the branch, then gently shove off, falling down into Torvil’s arms. My mind and body scream to get away, scratch his face, run run run, but I have a careful game to play right now if I’m going to get both Aowen and myself safely out of this.
Speaking of Aowen, she’s kneeling on the ground by the knight’s feet, gripping her braid to alleviate the pressure. Her face is a mask of desperation—an act. I see the glint in her pool-blue eyes that says, You can do this, Charlotte. Be clever.
Torvil settles me on my feet. “Well?”
There’s really only one angle to play.
I point a shaking finger at Aowen. “She took it. She and Desmond, they …” I blink back false tears.
“They enchanted me before the Hunt. Forced me to choose her as my second. The enchantment wore off as soon as the Bannrhorn was blown, and I’ve been fighting her since we arrived in the Eldergrove.
She … she’s trying to take me to her brother! ”
Aowen wears a defiant scowl, but I can tell how pleased she is with her cunning little liar queen. I’m a bit proud of myself, too, if I’m honest. Though I haven’t thought through how I’m going to use my lies to save her.
“I see.” Torvil stares down at Aowen, then flicks his chin toward his knight. “End her.”
“No!” I shout, and Torvil swivels back to me, sneering. “No, wait, I … We should make an example of her. After the Hunt. A public execution, like the one Alanthe áine received. We must show what happens to women who break the rules.”
Torvil’s brows rise, and I’m not sure whether he’s shocked at my viciousness or my knowledge of the Scourge of Tír na Lune. Aowen’s gnawing on the inside of her cheek, probably trying not to smile.
“As Her Majesty wishes, of course,” Torvil croons, snapping his finger at his knight, who pulls Aowen to her feet. Torvil raises his fingers to his mouth, and—
A blur of purple screams down from the pine and sinks rows of razor-sharp teeth into the knight’s sole intact ear. He shrieks, and, in his scrabble for Vesper, releases Aowen, who tears her thorn from his belt and sinks it into Torvil’s side.
Everything happens so quickly, I can barely keep up.
Torvil falls to his knees, a hand pressed to the wound, and hollers for his báshounds.
“Foolish girl!” Aowen growls loudly. “Vesper! To me!”
I let Aowen drag me away, assisting as much as I can without spoiling our show.
Torvil issues a watery shout to his second, “Help me, you fool!” Aowen cut him deep, but I doubt we’re lucky enough that he’ll die from it. “Mortis! Anguis! Follow them.”
The trees grow closer and closer together, much easier for Aowen, Vesper, and me to slip through than the báshounds. They’re caught up, ramming massive shoulders into immovable trunks, and soon, we’ve gained a several-minute advantage.
That gentle rush of water swells into a tidal bellow as we come upon a waterfall. And I was hesitant about a fifteen-foot jump from a tree? This leap looks to be at least ten times that.
“Come on, Charlotte.” Aowen pulls at my sleeve, glancing over her shoulder as trees splinter and the báshounds crash toward us. “Fucking jump!”
I take her hand and a deep breath.
Then we plummet down through the mist into churning, freezing water.