Chapter 17
“Eleanor.” Halima keeps shaking me, which, given her size, risks knocking me over. I open my mouth to try to explain.
“I…I saw…”
I stare at Halima’s blade, somehow knowing that’s what transported me to that cursed place. But not literally—no. I was always still here. Still myself. I only went there in my mind, became someone else, lived a few terrible minutes of their life.
“What did you see?” Halima demands.
I find my voice.
“There were hills, and black smoke from the magic, and fae, dead, everywhere. It was so awful…but I knew I had to keep going, no matter how much it cost me.”
Halima’s eyes narrow.
“These hills, did they have purple flowers on them?”
I stare at her, confused by the question, but I search back to that terrible vision…
“Yes,” I say, recalling the blooms that were trampled into the earth all around me.
Halima nods. “The battle of Amethyn Valley. It was one of the worst massacres during the Great Divide.”
She stands and walks over to where I threw her sword, picking it up.
“Do you remember what I told you about this blade?”
I concentrate, straining my memory, grateful for the excuse to think about anything other than the images still battering their way into my mind.
“It was your mother’s,” I say, as understanding began to dawn.
“Yes. She was a warrior who fought in the war. Both my parents were.”
“You think I tapped into her memory?” I ask, bewildered.
“I think you tapped into the memory of the blade.”
“The metal,” I breathe.
“It seems you can do more than move it around,” she says, eyeing me with curiosity. “What else have you done?”
“I’ve used it to listen—if I focus on a piece of metal, even one that’s far away from me, I can pick up on noise from nearby, and sense people near it. But this…the war happened centuries ago, didn’t it? How could I have witnessed it?”
“Major magical events leave their mark on objects,” Halima says with a shrug. “You can read metal, tell its location, who or what is near it. Why not also the things it’s touched, the blood it has shed?”
“But it was like I was in your mom’s head. The metal couldn’t have told me what she was thinking.”
“My mother comes from a long line of warriors. They have a ceremony that forges a special connection between them and their weapon if they make sure the first blood it draws is their own. Remember what I was saying about your blade being an extension of you? They use magic to make that literal.”
“It was so real,” I say, blinking back tears at the intensity of it.
“It is still real for many of the fae who lived it. Time does not heal all wounds,” she says darkly, before sheathing her sword. “I think we’ve done enough today.”
I look up at her, surprised.
“You disarmed me. Hardly an easy thing. That’s enough for one day. You’ll have more training, but I’m satisfied with your progress for now.”
We walk back through the palace towards my room. Right now, I’m glad for Halima’s aversion to chitchat. After what I’ve just experienced, I don’t really feel like talking much.
It’s one thing to have the war described to me. It’s a totally different thing seeing it—smelling and hearing it. I shudder as it creeps into my mind once more. I understand better now why Halima would swear on her sword to keep peace in the Seelie Kingdom at any cost, why she’s been so nervous about contact with the Unseelie Court. If I were fae, I would also do everything in my power to avoid ever returning to that time. The brutality of it, the horror, must have left a deep scar running through this world, and yet Halima is the only one I’ve ever really heard mention it. I wonder if you’d want to remember such a time, besides putting up the odd statue in a square that’s now overrun with iron.
The iron. It comes to me now, why this new discovery about my powers is significant.
If I can read the memories of metal, find out where it’s been, then I can use this to work out where the iron is coming from.
I slow my pace, realizing we’re heading the wrong way if I want to test my theory.
“I need to visit the orchard,” I say to Halima. “There’s something there I need to work out.”
“Very well,” she says, but I can hear the reluctance in her voice. I guess the idea of going near all that iron is less than welcoming.
“You don’t need to come with me,” I say. “I know it won’t exactly be a pleasant visit for you.”
Halima shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter how it will make me feel. If I’m needed, I will be there.”
The sentiment reminds me of the battlefield—even with the horror and the grief, I still felt a loyalty so strong it couldn’t be swayed by any power. Not even magic or death.
“That’s what your mother thought,” I say quietly. “In the valley, I felt her determination to keep going, despite everything. You and she share that, I think.”
Halima straightens. “I consider that the highest of compliments.”
“You should,” I say. “I can tell she was very brave. But this isn’t a matter of bravery, Halima, it’s just practical. There will be lots of people there. I’ll be safe enough, and there’s no point in you suffering for no reason.”
“All right,” she says, tapping the pommel of her sword in what I think is a self-soothing gesture. “But I will inform Ruskin of your whereabouts.”
I’m about to say something about not needing my every move reported on, but then think about how he compromised after our argument yesterday, and how he sent Halima to train rather than watch me.
“Okay,” I say, and we part ways.
The orchard is a mess. The mossy ground is all churned up and trees are on their side with half their roots still exposed. Low Fae are everywhere, their heads bobbing up and down above the top of deep furrows they’ve carved into the earth. I see they’ve created channels around the stumps of iron where they protrude from the ground. I also notice that most of the miners have the same shell-like skin as Kaline, but where I’d imagine that normally they’d have light green or pink complexions, they all look gray and washed out today.
Worry twists in my gut at the sight, and I can’t help but open my mouth.
“Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but how long have you been working in here?” I ask the nearest fae.
“Me, personally?” he asks. When he looks up at me I can see his left arm is shaking, making it harder for him to hold the shovel he’s using.
“Yes, how long is your shift?”
“I’ve been here two hours and I have another hour to go,” he says warily, seeming unsure why a human would be questioning like this. He must assume I’m some nosy servant, I realize.
Three-hour shifts? Hadeus and his High Fae lackeys were feeling sick after five minutes in here.
I look around, taking more in. Some of the fae are moving quickly, throwing up dirt and clearing the area around the iron at an incredible rate. I understand why Hadeus spoke so highly of their capability—but if they’re so skilled, then why not treat them with more care? I look back to the fae I spoke to. I suspect he was moving as fast as the others two hours ago, but now his movements are sluggish and clumsy.
I step around the piles of earth, through the orchard, getting the full scope of the work. The more I see, the sicker I feel. I knew Hadeus wasn’t to be trusted, and feel disgusted with myself when I think how I accepted the idea that the Low Fae should be used like this, even knowing they would suffer for it.
A pair of fae heave a large hacksaw between them, trying to cut through one of the smaller shoots of iron. Leather gloves are the only thing protecting them from the substance and as I watch, one suddenly bends over to vomit, making the other slip. His arm slides up against the iron and he lets out a yowl of pain as it sears him, the smell of burnt flesh filling the air.
It reminds me too much of the battlefield and, like a coward, I turn to find the exit. As I go, I remind myself that I can at least find someone to call healers for the workers. That would do more good than standing by and idly watching these people suffer anymore.
As I near the entrance of the orchard, I see Ruskin, surveying the scene with unreadable eyes, and my breath catches. He hasn’t spotted me yet and it gives me an opportunity to take him in—the sharp cut of his jaw and cheekbones, the curve of his shoulders and chest, shrouded in perfectly tailored black, hugging every muscle.
He really is beautiful, and it makes the distance between us all the more painful.
Then he turns his head and his eyes lock onto mine. I don’t think I imagine the way his eyes darken, and I self-consciously brush a lock of hair behind my ear. Ruskin approaches me.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Halima was supposed to tell you where I was,” I say.
“She did, but that doesn’t answer my question,” he says slyly. “How did training go?”
“It was…interesting.” I’m unsure how else to sum up the chaotic day I’ve had.
“Halima’s words were ‘better than expected,’” Ruskin says with a wry smile.
“I suppose you could put it like that, but that doesn’t matter right now.” I don’t want to stand here and make small talk when there are people around us in pain. Ruskin must’ve noticed the condition these fae are in, and yet his eyes remain fixed on me, like I’m the only one in the room.
“Hadeus said he’d put in policies to make sure these workers were safe, but look at them. They’ve been working for way too long. Some of them can barely stand, and none have been given the right equipment to protect themselves.”
Ruskin sweeps his gaze about the room. “I will make them change out the shift now,” he said.
“That’s not?—”
“And I will tell the supervisor that no fae is allowed to spend more than an hour in here at a time, with ample breaks. Satisfied?”
“It’s a start,” I say. Really, I’m annoyed he didn’t think of this before, or anyone else for that matter, but that’s something I’ve noticed about the Seelie. They just seem to accept that someone always has to get hurt. That suffering is the price someone—usually someone else—will always have to pay for them to get what they want. I can understand it, growing up in this world, but just because it’s been that way for a long time, doesn’t mean it has to stay that way.
“Hadeus says they haven’t found much anyway,” he says, looking over a nearby pile of earth.
I purse my lips, not sure I’d take Hadeus’s word for anything—inability to lie or not.
“Well, they’ve removed some of the iron,” I say, spotting rough clumps of it discarded in the soil. I bend, combing through the earth with my hand until I’ve got my fingers around a knot of it, pulling it loose. I frown at it, realizing how small it is in comparison to the shoots, a strange, mangled lump rather than the smooth, thick tendrils crisscrossing the room.
“This doesn’t look like the others,” I say.
“Do you think that’s significant?” Ruskin asks doubtfully.
“I don’t know…” I examine the layers of iron, building up on one another in a familiar pattern I can’t quite place. “Hold on.”
I don’t exactly know how I read the memories of Halima’s sword, but I try to tap into that again now, closing my eyes and starting where I do with any spell—at the pool of magic.
It’s harder. At first, I think it’s because I haven’t got the technique down, that I’m not asking my magic the right thing—but then I feel the weight of the iron’s presence pushing back against me. This is a metal that naturally wants to repel magic. I know I can bend it to my will, but it doesn’t come easily.
I focus on the knot of iron in my hand, finding its core, the essence of it.
Come on, I urge it, show me your secrets. Where do you come from?
There’s a flash of something—a memory it holds of being a substance very different to the cold, hard material infecting the palace, a thing that’s soft and vibrant.
“It…it was something else, before it became iron,” I explain to Ruskin, still concentrating. “It had another form. It’s familiar, but I’m not sure why…”
Then, as with Halima’s blade, a wave of emotion hits me like a lightning bolt—a surge of anguish and hate. The same feelings that fed the haze of war: a hunger for death and punishment.
“It was a living thing once upon a time,” I say with certainty. “But it’s been twisted by anger and pain.”
I push once again against the iron with my magic, but it won’t give way. It doesn’t want to reveal anything more than the vague clues I’ve gleaned. It offers stony indifference, a world away from the clear images of the sword’s memory. And as tired as I am from all the magic I’ve used already, I don’t have the energy to force it.
I let my magic fall back and open my eyes. Ruskin is watching me closely.
“How did you do that?” he asks.
“It’s like tracking the metal, except I asked it different questions and tried to read its memory instead.”
“Memory? Objects don’t have memories.”
“Well, that’s how Halima put it when I touched her sword and it took me back to the war.”
I see he’s trying, and failing, to looked unfazed by this news, his eyes widening in surprise.
“So that’s what happened at training. And that’s how you knew you could do this?”
“Yes.”
“And Halima actually let you touch her sword?” he says disbelievingly.
I bite my lip. “I wouldn’t say let… She wasn’t happy about it.”
He chuckles. “I can imagine.” His face grows serious again, and he looks at me, thoughtfully.
“You know, your power really is capable of more than I could have ever imagined.”
The note of wonder in his voice makes my cheeks heat, but it’s one thing to acknowledge my importance, and another to treat me like an equal. I remind myself of that as I take a very firm step back.
“Will you tell them about the shifts, please?” I ask, unable to tune out the pain of the fae working around us.
He blinks at me. “Since you ask so nicely, and since that is such a rarity, I shall get right to it.”
He strides to the exit, calling for the supervisor. As I watch him go, I’m struck by a realization. I shouldn’t be meekly asking for this to be changed, shouldn’t be relying on Ruskin to fix things for me. I can do something about this myself. After all, what am I, if not inventive? If I can find a way to turn lead to gold, I can find a solution to ease these workers’ suffering.
Lead.
I know it as soon as I think the word. That’s the place to start.
I don’t wait for Ruskin to come back. Instead, I grab the smallest knot of iron I can find, wrap it in my skirts, and make for my workshop.