Chapter 5
5
I ARRIVE AT THE FORGE when the night is darkest, for the abbey sleeps, and I must return before the rising sun.
When I enter the shrouded, still-warm workshop, however, I find it deserted. Had I misunderstood Zephyrus’ instructions? The lamp hangs in my window, a mellow glow likely visible across the strait to the east, a small sun atop the tower to lead those at sea home.
Lingering smoke stings my nostrils as I pace the area, tugging on the cord cinching my waist. Zephyrus said he would be here. Yet I am alone.
As I consider my options, I spot a note nailed to the front door.
Brielle, meet me where the River Twee splits. I will await your arrival.
Irritation washes through me. Of course he informs me to meet him at the most inopportune time, and at the most inconvenient location. I consider returning to my room, forgetting this fool’s bargain. But the promise he’d given me: Willow. Whoever this person is, they hold the answer to my prayers.
With my dagger secured at my waist, I cross the outer grounds to the deserted gatehouse and make the treacherous journey down the mountain. My pulse thunders as I navigate the rocky trail on shaky legs. The moon is not as bright as I had hoped. It hides from me, and forces me through the dark. Do not stray from the path. Mother Mabel has hammered this warning into our very beings.
Last year, tragedy struck Thornbrook. Curious Madeline, a novitiate in her second year, went missing while roaming Carterhaugh after dark. Seven days later, we found her in a nearby glen, wandering in circles around a ring of mushrooms sprouting from the moist soil. The girl rambled about a strange man smelling of roses, whose face she could not remember.
The pregnancy progressed at an inhuman speed. Within a few short weeks, Madeline could no longer hide the enormous swell of her stomach. The transgression resulted in her dismissal from Thornbrook. We never heard from her again.
“I suppose they do not teach you to step lightly at this abbey of yours,” a musical voice drawls from somewhere in the dim.
I’m panting, dripping sweat, and in no mood for barbed conversation. Moreover, I cannot determine if that was an underhanded insult about my size.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Ahead, the river glitters through the trees.
“Indeed.” Zephyrus materializes between two towering oaks, a heavy green cloak warming his shoulders. Moonlight silvers the tips of his eyelashes and softens the awkward planes of his face. “Most do not brave the forest after dark.”
Apparently, I am more foolish than most. Desperate, certainly. For only desperation would send me into utter blackness, no lamp to light my way.
“I am to return before dawn,” I state, falling into step behind him as he gestures me across a shallow section of the river.
“And you will.” He leaps from stone to flattened stone. “This should not take long.” Another effortless bound and he reaches the opposite bank.
“You will not leave me?”
His eyes catch the light, the small black pupils narrowing. He studies me for a time, and if I am not mistaken, there is some semblance of understanding in his gaze, though it may be a trick of the light. “As long as you follow my instruction,” he assures me, “you will have nothing to worry about.”
We delve deeper into the innards of Carterhaugh, surging through the vein-like openings between the long-standing trees. The tangle of leaves shutters the stars, yet Zephyrus glides over every dip and knoll as if our path were marked by sunlight. My tread is not as light, nor as quick. This man denies he is one of the fair folk, but how else could he navigate so well in the dark?
We arrive at a clearing as perfectly round as a plum ripe for plucking. A spring interrupts the spread of softened grass, a deep pool of icy clarity.
Without turning around, Zephyrus whispers, “We’re here.”
“Where is here ?” My voice drops, for the night sounds have hushed. And the wind? That, too, has died.
He approaches the edge of the water, painted in white moonlight. “Under.”
My toe catches on a root, and I stumble. “What?” When I manage to regain my footing, I stare at Zephyrus’ back, the strong line of his shoulders beneath the heavy cloak. “You said you weren’t one of the fair folk,” I manage faintly. Am I truly so na?ve as to have accepted his word?
He glances over his shoulder at me, expression cold. “I’m not. The fair folk and I have an understanding. I am allowed to come and go from their realm as I please.”
Only on the tithe, when the veil between realms is at its thinnest, may the Daughters of Thornbrook venture into Under, and only accompanied by Mother Mabel. Without her guiding hand, one might lose oneself.
We all understand the tithe’s importance. The contract between Thornbrook and Under is clear. The land upon which the abbey was built belongs to Under. The abbey may only continue to lease the land if we participate in the tithe. Too many towns depend on Thornbrook to risk its closure, Kilkare and Aranglen especially. Even Veraness, my hometown.
“You didn’t mention Willow would be in Under,” I say, hesitating by the edge of the pool. Then again, I never asked. “I’m forbidden to enter.”
Zephyrus hums in acknowledgment. “That is quite the predicament.”
A moment of silence passes.
“Well,” he says casually, “the way I see it, there’s a simple solution.” He pins me in place with that evergreen gaze. “Do it anyway.”
It is no jest. That concerns me. “You understand there are rules I must abide by. I am not free to go where I want.”
“So it would seem.” He laughs, and the sound is almost too pleasant to be scornful, despite the tension behind it. “You are free to choose your own path, yet you choose to live your life within the boundaries Thornbrook has set for you. But please, correct me if I am wrong.”
I’ve half a mind to shove him into the spring for dismissing my faith, but I would not disappoint the Father with my actions.
Zephyrus sighs and rocks back on his heels. “Let me explain. Beyond your abbey walls”—he sweeps an arm eastward, toward the distant realm of the Gray—“there exists an entire world you have never touched. If you are truly committed to your faith, then consider this: once you take your final vows, you will be forever bound to the church. Why not take the opportunity to explore while you still can? It may be the last thing you ever do for yourself.”
I wish I were not so easily swayed. Obedience: the first of my vows. But might breaking it be worth the guarantee of my appointment?
“Be that as it may, I am still mortal. The fair folk do not look kindly on us.” I tug the ends of my cincture with both hands, twisting the rope around and around.
“Never fear. As my guest, you will be granted amnesty.” At my hesitation, he says, “Do you want to become an acolyte or not?”
I have worked too hard and for too long to allow this opportunity to pass me by. To watch someone like Harper, of all people, obtain the honor before me. It’s hard enough believing I belong in Thornbrook most days. Forsaken, motherless, fatherless but for my god. Maybe I’m tired of being stepped on. Is there room enough for change in me?
I take the deepest breath I can manage, and when I release it, my fear ebbs with it. “I don’t know if I’m capable of completing the journey, but I will try. What must I do?”
Zephyrus offers me one long-fingered hand, which I accept. Even through the leather, the heat of his skin seeps into mine.
“Do your gloves serve a purpose?” he asks. “I noticed you wore them in your bedroom as well.”
I step to his side, toeing the edge of the spring. The wall of trees edging the clearing hoards shadows. “It is against our moral law to touch a man.”
“Why?”
“Because it is,” I snap. “Why is the sky blue? Why does water flow downhill? It is fact. It is known. There is nothing to understand beyond that.”
“Isn’t there?” How piercing that gaze is when resting wholly on me. “Tell me, Brielle,” he continues softly. “Have you ever wondered what a man’s touch feels like?”
An unexpected heat flutters through my stomach. This conversation has begun to slide into uncharted territory. I am not ignorant. The Text explains what occurs when a woman lies with a man. Purity—our second vow. To live a consecrated life, one cannot be impure of body. The Father would know. I would know.
“I have not,” I state. “Only a virgin may become an acolyte.” Despite the unnerving focus of his stare, my tone permits no argument.
When he speaks, his voice comes throaty and low. “Who said anything about losing your virginity?”
A sweep of chill bumps pebbles my skin. What he insinuates… No. I refuse to respond to such a ridiculous comment.
Zephyrus smirks and faces forward. “Originally,” he says, still fighting a smile, “Under had four entrances, each aligned to the cardinal directions. All cut into the mountain’s heart.”
I’m so relieved by the subject change I do not retreat when he edges closer to me.
“Over time, however, Under came alive and shaped new entrances. Today, only two of the four doorways remain.”
“This is one of them?” Knowledge. I encase myself in its armor, for I will need it.
“Indeed it is. The original doorways can only be accessed by the fair folk and those whom they have granted the right of passage. But they are not the only means of entering Under. You might wander a path and cross into the realm without realizing it, or an entrance might one day decide to seal itself off, never again to open. There is no rhyme or reason to it. Trees, springs, doors, caves, holes in the ground—all might lead to Under with the right conditions.”
“And what are the right conditions?”
Zephyrus shrugs. “That is for Under to decide.”
He turns to me then. A strange man standing in an even stranger place. “Can you swim?”
“Yes.” My attention flits to the water. I cannot see the bottom.
A cunning little grin ghosts across his mouth. Beautiful teeth for a face that is anything but. “Here.” Zephyrus offers me a small white shell. “Place it between your teeth and breathe through your mouth. It will prevent you from drowning.” He pulls me closer as I follow his instructions. Our shoulders brush, and even that brief touch brings a dryness to my mouth. He smells of the mountain. “Don’t let go of my hand.”
What awaits me beneath the surface? Salvation, perhaps. Or the ruination of everything I hold dear.
“Trust me,” he murmurs, slow and mesmeric.
I do not.
A sharp tug drags me forward, and we free fall into the spring.
Frigid water engulfs me. Then—panic.
A wave of heat branches down my limbs, and I begin to flail. My shoulder rams into hard substrate; the rush of bubbles blinds me. I will die here . I will die in this watery grave, alone, without a proper burial, forever denied the Father’s divine gates of respite. As my lungs seize, I kick in the direction I believe is up, only to slam my face into stone, its edge slicing my cheek open.
Someone grabs my arm, halting my frenzy. Zephyrus. He is close, overwhelmingly so. Short tresses float from his scalp like brown river grass. The clarity of his crystalline eyes in the murk has an odd, calming effect on me.
Recalling his instructions, I inhale through my mouth, salt bristling on my tongue from the hard, spiral shell clamped between my teeth. Water tickles my nostrils, and when my throat opens, air rushes in.
By the Father, he was right. What is this sorcery?
Darkness yawns beneath, and the underground current tugs us farther from the surface. My fingers twitch, deepening the contact with Zephyrus’ hand—the only warmth in this airless, lightless place.
As we drift, the gloom thickens, the enclosed tunnel that surrounds us narrowing, like a long throat swallowing us whole. Down we sink into the obscured depths. I fight the climbing panic in my chest, the instinct to claw my way back toward the light. I am breathing. I am alive. The water will not take me.
As we hit the bottom of the spring, pressure shoves against my feet. With Zephyrus’ guidance, we float upward toward a separate branching tunnel, bubbles streaming from our open mouths.
My head breaks the surface. Releasing Zephyrus’ hand, I tread water, peering at our surroundings. We’ve reached the heart of a prodigious cave, all dark rock against which the echoing splash bounces. My teeth chatter around the shell, and I promptly spit it out, swimming to the edge of the pool and dragging myself from its icy clasp. Water pours from my dress onto the smooth, stony ground. The drenched fabric adheres to every generous curve, so my body feels more exposed than if I were wearing nothing at all.
Zephyrus, meanwhile, hauls himself from the spring with ease, lean muscle displayed beneath the clinging cotton of his clothes. A glimpse is all I allow myself, no less and no more, before I push to my feet and look elsewhere. I have seen a man’s form before, but never one so revealed.
I brush the thought away as if it were an errant cobweb and focus on the chamber. Tunnels branch from the main cavity. Its ceiling is supported by multiple arches glowing with faint pink light. “This is Under?” I assumed it would be more fearsome.
“Not quite.” Zephyrus squeezes droplets from the hem of his tunic. “The mountain is a neutral zone between Under and Carterhaugh. See that archway? Passing beneath it will lead you into Under.”
The path ahead vanishes into the murk. I release a slow, shaky breath. I have come this far. I cannot stop now.
“There are three things you must know if you wish to leave Under alive.”
My throat dips with a nervous swallow, but I nod in understanding. After all, I have heard the sordid tales.
“The first thing to remember,” he says, lifting a finger, “is that you must not eat or drink anything offered to you.” His expression, pressed into solemnity, holds a curious allure. “The wine tastes sweeter, the fruits brighter, the meat is impossibly rich with flavor. Once you begin to eat, you will lose your sense of self.”
Decades before, one of the novitiates failed to resurface following the tithe, or so the story goes. Mother Mabel returned to Under, only to find the woman dead, having gorged herself for so long her stomach split clean in half.
“The second,” he says, “is that you must not stray from the path.”
“The path?”
“The path,” Zephyrus emphasizes, and gestures to the ground.
Indeed, an uprise of grass sprouts from the bedrock a stone’s throw ahead, which passes beneath the carved archway. A chilled gust belches from the passage, reeking of decomposed plant matter. I choke on the taste.
“The path will keep you safe,” he says. “Do not stray.”
This is Under, an unfamiliar current, and Zephyrus is my anchor. I will follow his instructions without complaint. “And the third?”
“If you must remember one thing, let it be this: never speak your name aloud. Ever. Should any of the fair folk learn your name, they will have power over you, more power than you can ever imagine. Keep it safe. Trust no one.”
“What of your name?”
His mouth curves too sharply to be pleasant. “My name has already been claimed by another, so you may use it freely. It will make no difference.”
“What do you mean your name has been claimed?” As I fall into step beside him, we pass into the dense gloom of the tunnel. Quiet like a void, like a tomb.
Nothing. I see nothing.
“Once your name is known,” says Zephyrus, “the sound is captured and stored in a glass bottle. It may be sold, or bartered with, or given to another, or set free, though rarely are the fair folk amiable enough to do the latter. Whoever among their kind possesses your name may dictate your every movement, the where and when and how of your life.”
Is it the darkness that makes his reply slither and spit like a viper? I wrap my arms around my front as we shamble onward. Beneath the chilly air, a warmer, tamer breeze skims my ankles. “There’s nothing you can do?”
“When your name is called, it is impossible to ignore. Only death can break the bond.”
Then I must keep my wits about me.
One moment, we shuffle in utter blackness, a low pulse of sound building in my eardrums, and the next, the walls fall away, the ceiling climbs, the space before us bleeds red. It is not natural, this light.
We stand on the bank of a wide, underground lake. It expands so far into the distance that I cannot see the opposite shore. At my feet: grass. Safe to tread, though I do not know if I am willing.
In the center of the lake floats an extensive wooden platform the size of a barley field, on which a crowd of creatures has amassed, writhing to the blood-pounding rhythm of thundering drums. Large glass orbs bob like lanterns in the water, flushed pink, occasionally a richer scarlet. It’s obvious we have intruded on a celebration of sorts.
I peer upward, startling in surprise. There hangs the moon, only I do not recognize it. The globular shape reminds me of a yellowing growth attached to the ceiling, except it is not a ceiling, but the sky. A few stars throb dully in the darkened fabric.
“Under’s enchantments reflect what occurs aboveground but, as you can see, there are some differences.” Zephyrus points to the feeble glowing orb above. “The realm’s sun and moon do not always cycle reliably. Sometimes, the moon gets stuck. A rudimentary design, but it does the job most days.”
“I see.” One last glance upward before my attention returns to the lake.
“Stay close,” he murmurs. A boardwalk extends from the grassy bank to the platform, and it rocks gently beneath our combined weight as we make our way across. When we reach the raft, the crowd parts around us, then sutures into a neat seam at our backs. I press nearer to Zephyrus, trying to avoid touching anyone or anything.
The fair folk do not share any specific traits, no single skin tone, no general shape, really, except for their eyes—black stones, like that woman from the market. Some possess tails. Others, beaks or antlers. Their skin is a collection of browns, ochres, olives, whites, grays.
Bare shoulders.
Bare arms.
Bare stomachs.
Bare legs.
They slink and they fondle. Their hands stroke and slither across torsos, down arms, over backs, up spines.
I look away, but there is always another person of interest amongst the loose-limbed dancers, the undulating hips. They wear waistcoats and elaborate gowns, top hats and long, ragged tunics. When I spot a man’s hand slipping between the thighs of another, I drop my gaze.
“The fair folk enjoy their merrymaking,” Zephyrus drawls beside me, having no qualms about studying their half-naked forms, male and female both.
“It is unholy,” I state stiffly.
“To you, perhaps.”
As we push through the festivities, I notice a woman draped in gauzy silks, one arm bared, and one breast. A pair of antlers protrudes from her skull. We then pass a trio of men whose skin resembles the texture of tree bark. The tallest man brings a glass of pale, sparkling liquid to his mouth. A forked tongue slithers out, curling slightly to capture the fluid, before retracting behind his teeth.
“Dryads,” Zephyrus murmurs, tracking my dumbfounded gaze. “They prefer the taste of flesh.”
I hasten my steps. This place is like nothing I’ve imagined. There appears to be no purpose to the gathering. They drink and laugh and dance as if it’s a compulsion.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, trying to squeeze between two owl-eyed girls while attempting to avoid the downy wings folded across their backs. I dodge a woman lying spread-eagled across the listing platform, a scaly tail wrapped around one leg. As I shrink from the sight, Zephyrus catches my eye and smirks.
“You have lived a sheltered life,” he says. “It is nothing to be ashamed of.” And yet, he cannot quite conceal the condescension.
“Maybe I have seen less of the world than you,” I snip, “but I have the Father. I need nothing else.”
A shrill, raptor cry soars over the gathering, followed by raucous laughter. “Is that so?” Intrigue colors his voice. “You are comforted by your god. I understand that. Indeed, there was a time when I myself was a symbol of good tidings.”
The last bit of information snags my attention, but Zephyrus continues before I have a chance to question him.
“Your world is not the same as mine. You sleep and you read and you eat and you pray. Every hour of every day is spent safely within the boundaries of your faith. My world?” He bares his teeth, and for a moment, I could have sworn they had developed points. “It is a treacherous place, unfit for the pure.” The warm, heavy weight of his palm braces my lower back, and I startle, my eyes flying to his face. “But we are attracted to things that lie outside of our lived experience,” he says lowly. “We crave something deeper.”
I do not agree. Why would I be attracted to this ? What is the purpose of exploring something so depraved? Under lacks morals, it lacks faith. It is walls with no foundation, nothing to build upon. His claims are ridiculous. The abbey is my home and my heart. I want for nothing there.
The deeper we tread into the frenzy, the greater my awareness of the unwanted attention I am attracting becomes. For this reason alone, I remain close to Zephyrus.
“They stare,” I whisper.
He smiles, a small, contemplative thing. “They smell the innocence on you.”
A few paces later, someone slips a chalice into his hand, which he lifts to his mouth. I catch his arm. “Don’t drink the wine, remember?”
His eyes dance over the rim of his goblet. “ You cannot drink the wine, my darling novitiate. You are mortal. I am not.” And he downs the red liquid, a bright sheen staining his laughing mouth.
At last, we step onto the boardwalk leading to the opposite shore. I thought the crowd would have cleared out, but if anything, it has multiplied. Something pinches my rear, and I whirl, my breath shortening. Look at these fair folk with their dark, oil-slick eyes, wildness clinging to all their wretched points. What has possessed me to accompany a man I know nothing about to a place that will readily eat me alive if given the chance? A moment of weakness, apparently.
“I want to go back,” I tell Zephyrus. But the crowd is so dense I cannot see the cavern walls.
He slows, cants his head in my direction. A single curl tumbles across his forehead. “You can’t go back.”
“Why not?” I fiddle with the cord around my waist, tightening my grip to strangulation.
“It’s not that I won’t take you back. It’s that I can’t . The only way to return is to go forward. Should you attempt to backtrack, you will find yourself helplessly ensnared in Under.”
“That makes absolutely no sense.”
“Doesn’t it?” He regards me for an uncomfortably long moment, and my cheeks heat. I do not think I imagine his eyes lingering on my dress, the damp fabric clinging to curves of skin. “Consider this: you are a mortal who has wandered into Under. The fair folk will do whatever it takes to prevent your escape. Why? Because they are bound to the shadows while mortals are gifted the sun.”
His claim rings with authority, and I dare not challenge it. Turning, I take in the scene. The black lake shines like oil beneath the scarlet glare. If I cannot go back, my only choice is to trust Zephyrus to lead me forward.
“Fine,” I manage, though my chest twinges. “We continue. But hurry, please.”
The crowd parts, and the grassy path unfolds as we veer from the shore toward a grove of trees draped in twinkling blue lights. They float in long strings, these lights, catching the air on the upswing, briefly suspended before drifting back into place. It is strange, yes, but any light is better than none.
Zephyrus strides ahead, limber and sure-footed. I am not certain how long we walk. An hour? An age? My clothes are nearly dry by the time he lifts a hand, signaling us to slow. I peer around him, and my jaw drops.
It is without a doubt the most beautiful tree I have ever seen. It sprawls in a field of darkness, its smooth, twisting trunk the color of fresh snow, innumerable branches clothed in strands of blue lights.
“It’s lovely,” I say, though lovely seems an inadequate description of something so other .
“According to the fair folk, Willow is the heart of Under.” Ducking beneath the hanging lights, he calls back, “Ask, and you shall receive.”
Willow is not a person, but a tree. It makes sense, I suppose.
“So I just… speak?” When I push through the strands, a pale chime brightens the air.
Zephyrus lounges against the trunk, mouth quirked in mischief. “You may ask Willow anything you wish, but she will only answer the questions she believes to come from your true self.”
That, I can do. “Do you mind if I have a little privacy?”
His eyebrows lift. “You’re sure?” When I merely glare, he says, “I’ll be over there if you need me.” Pushing off the tree, he melts into the darkness beyond.
With Zephyrus gone, the burden eases from my chest. I want him far away when I make my request. I’m ashamed of my voice’s tendency to wobble under pressure, how easily it breaks beneath the great weight of the unknown.
“My face is here, child.”
The throaty command draws my gaze upward. What I had believed to be knots in the bark have cracked open to reveal lidded eyes, the curving seam of a mouth.
“There you are.” The bark creaks as the eyelids sink low. “It has been a long time,” Willow intones, “since a mortal woman has graced my presence. But tell me, child. What do you desire?”
This answer, at least, is easy.
“I would like to know what I must do to become the next acolyte.” And then, hushed: “How can I be seen as worthy?”
The tree’s mouth pinches into a dark whorl. “I can see your whole history in your eyes. Ten long years you have toiled. You wonder why your efforts have failed to bring about the opportunity you seek. You wonder why it has not been enough.”
My throat aches fiercely. Tears well, and the blue lights burn into brightest stars.
“What must I do?” I whisper. Shall I kneel? Shall I close my eyes and lift my hands to the Eternal Lands?
“My dear.” Willow sighs. “Your path is not an easy one. It is lonely, and long, and marked by conflicting desires.” The great tree pauses, her wooden mouth crimped in what I believe to be sympathy. “You ask whether there is anything you can do to bring about the change in station you so desperately desire? Unfortunately, there is not.”
I clasp my trembling hands at my front. “I see.”
“One cannot control another’s actions, but do not despair. This path is yours alone, and a time will come when you gain your heart’s desire.”
“When? Am I to work diligently for another five, ten, fifteen years before I’m granted the opportunity to become one of the Father’s most loyal shepherds?” A novitiate’s duty is to build a foundation upon which faith can rest, but an acolyte acts as the Father’s own messenger, traveling to far-reaching towns and communities to spread His word, the good of all that is holy. It is a privilege many never experience. The truest representation of belonging to the faith.
A branch drifts down with an aged creak to skim my back, the way a mother might console a disappointed child. “Do not fret,” soothes Willow. “Trust that what will be, will be.”
What did I expect, exactly? Comfort, perhaps. Reassurance of the Father’s warmth, proof of Mother Mabel’s investment in my future. But all I feel is the hollowness where my heart once beat, cotton stuffed in its place.
“Very well. Thank you for your guidance.” It’s silly to have believed I could change something beyond my control. I had hoped—too much, I think.
Soft grass muffles my footsteps as I turn to go. Pushing aside the strands of blue lights, I step into the clearing. Darkness rests as a veil over my vision, a relief after the piercing brightness. Zephyrus, however, is gone.