Chapter 15
Elisandra, the kitchen maid, sets a cup of ale in front of me at midday, when Tristan finally lets me take a break from training.
The great hall is dim, despite the beeswax candles melting on the long wooden tables.
A draft moves through the air, making the flames gutter and bend.
A handful of villagers sit scattered throughout the room as they eat.
They give me a wide berth. Whenever I’m around, they whisper among themselves and shoot me nervous glances.
I’ve been here for nearly three weeks now, but most people still eye me with distrust.
No matter. The watery ale may as well be the finest vintage of wine after the morning I just had.
I sigh and give Elisandra a smile of thanks. “Bless you.” My arms are so tired, I can barely lift the mug to my lips.
Elisandra curtseys, her cheeks growing pink. “You’re most welcome.”
At a nearby table, a grizzled man in a sheepskin vest snorts, glaring at me.
To my surprise, Elisandra glares right back, looking all the more menacing for her one clouded eye.
The man grumbles, picks up his mug, then limps to a different table.
He sets his mug down with a clatter next to a group of old women.
They push their heads together and whisper, no doubt about me.
“Ignore them,” Elisandra says. “Like most things in the north, they’re slow to thaw.”
Her unexpected kindness takes me by surprise. I glance at her sidelong, lowering my voice so no one can hear. “You don’t need to defend me if it’ll cause you trouble.”
She shakes her head and tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, Fox Heir.”
Hearing my old title makes my skin prickle. “Is that what everyone’s calling me?”
She tilts her head questioningly. “Isn’t that who you are?”
I take another gulp and swallow slowly. “I suppose so. Kind of.” I shake my head. “Not anymore.”
She must sense my discomfort because her face melts into empathy. “I imagine it’s a great burden, having a name like that.”
I nod, unsure what to say.
Across the room, someone clearly mumbles something that sounds remarkably like “Llwyn whore.”
Elisandra casts another glare across the room, then turns back to me with a sigh. “You must think Annwyn is a terrible place.”
I shrug. “Well, there is a lot of doom and gloom.”
“And ice. And snow.”
“And corpse wolves.”
A grin flickers at the corner of her mouth. “Yes, those too.” She exhales again, softer this time, and studies me with a look caught somewhere between pity and mischief. After a moment, she stands straighter and taps her hand on the table. “Come. I want to show you something.”
I take a long swig of ale, emptying my cup before I stand.
My legs ache, but I stifle a groan and follow her.
We ignore the stares and whispers as we walk out of the great hall.
The second we’re out the door, I hear the hum of conversation resume.
Elisandra takes me through familiar castle halls without a word.
Other villagers nod to her as we pass, but none spare me a glance.
We stop in front of a heavy wooden door near the throne room. She pauses with her hand on the handle.
“Don’t mind the mess.”
She pushes the door open. Inside, a cavernous room is stuffed wall to wall with such a random assortment of odds and ends that it’s staggering.
My eyes widen as I take in the sight. There are barrels filled with empty spools for thread.
A mountain of fireplace pokers and ash shovels clutter an entire corner.
Old furniture is piled on top of more old furniture.
On top of that, there are moth-eaten bolts of holey fabric, which spill down to the floor below like faded waterfalls.
“What is this place?” I ask.
We pass a gilded mirror leaning against a stack of crates, and its cracked glass reflects fragments of my face. My eyes are haunted and strange in the splintered glass. I hardly look like myself anymore.
“It used to be a ballroom,” Elisandra says as she closes the lid of a trunk filled with old clothes and spiderwebs. “Now, it’s storage.”
I look down toward my feet. Sure enough, beneath the dirt, there’s a mosaic floor in shades of black and white.
For a room this size to have such intricate flooring, it must have been a spectacular ballroom.
It’s difficult to believe such a room was ever used in Gwyllion, given the state of the castle now.
Elisandra pushes an old boot out of our path with her foot.
“We can’t afford to get rid of anything, so it ends up here.
” She looks up at the hundreds of years’ worth of broken chairs, bolts of stained cloth, tables, even cradles.
“We come here to find replacements for anything too broken to use. Or if we need wood to burn.” She points toward a pile of furniture that’s been chopped down into kindling.
“But this isn’t what I want you to see.”
We wind our way through the clutter, squeezing past wardrobes missing doors.
Elisandra pauses to run a finger over an ornately carved cabinet.
Wood-carved trees seem to shift in a breeze, raining flower petals over two lovers lounging together beneath their limbs.
It’s an idyllic scene that feels remarkably out of place in Gwyllion with its cold stone walls and winter storms. It makes me wonder what Annwyn is like when it’s not coated in snow and pounded with ice storms.
Next to me, there’s a crate filled with disintegrating straw. I brush the straw away, and something sparkles.
“It’s … crystal.” My breath catches with surprise. I rub away the grime with my thumb to reveal green glass decanters so delicate they must be the work of a master craftsman. They’re empty, of course, except for dust.
“We used to be a fine castle, you know.” There’s a note of defensiveness in Elisandra’s voice. “Though that was long before I was born.”
I look around with new eyes. This room isn’t filled with mere junk; it’s the archive of a great era.
Sure, it’s nothing like the organized archives back home in the palace at Caerwen, but it’s a historic collection, nonetheless.
I lift a heavy blanket from a mound and uncover a chandelier with teardrop glass in shades of rose and lavender.
I have to blink away the disbelief. “It’s hard to imagine something like this hanging at Gwyllion.”
Elisandra’s expression softens. “Every time I come here, I wish I could have seen it.” Her voice sounds almost wistful.
“Royals, both human and fae, spent their summers here by the sea. There were feasts every night. Hunts and garden parties by day. The balls were the stuff of dreams. It was second only to Ellyll, the main residence of the Fae Kings and Queens.”
“Before the humans usurped them.”
“Yes.” Her voice sounds far away, lost in the fantasy of the past.
“This was a summer palace?” I ask.
“The sea gives a lovely breeze in the warm months.” Outside, the wind howls, rattling the windows in their panes. Elisandra shrugs. “It was mostly shut up in the winters, given the …” She gestures toward the snow-frosted glass.
I drop the blanket, letting the chandelier sink back into its dark slumber. Nearby, I spot piles of velvet curtains faded to ghostly shades of plum, rose, and forest green.
Elisandra tilts her head. “Just a little farther.”
Beyond a mountain of broken relics lies a collection of paintings and books piled to a precarious height. I pick up a book whose cover is so faded the title is long gone. The spine cracks when I open it. The title page is lettered in loops and curls: Fae Ladies and Their Lovers.
I lift an eyebrow. “This one looks like it’s been read sometime this century.”
Elisandra gives me a sly smile. “I have no idea what you’re implying.” She nods toward it. “But you’re welcome to borrow it anytime.”
I grin. “Maybe another day.” I set the book aside for another. “The Horticultural Wonders of the North.”
Her face brightens. “The summer gardens here were legendary. Visitors came from as far away as the western deserts to see it.”
“I didn’t even know there were deserts in the west.”
Elisandra gives me a long-suffering look. “That’s because you grew up in Llwyn. Your people can’t see past their own noses, let alone to the lands beyond the Spires.”
“I suppose that’s fair.”
Elisandra sighs deeply. “Annwyn, on the other hand, cherishes its vast and dramatic landscapes.”
“I’d love to see it someday.” I’m surprised when the words leave my mouth, because they’re true. I would like to see more of Annwyn. It can’t all be crumbling castles and impenetrable mountains.
“Me too,” Elisandra says.
I blink at her. “What do you mean?”
She trails a finger through the dust on top of a curio cabinet. “I’ve never been anywhere but Gwyllion. On account of the …” she gestures toward her blinded eye.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She shrugs. “We all have our fates.”
“Maybe yours will change someday.”
“Maybe.” Her voice is sad, and her gaze is far away.
I lean down to pick up another book from the ground. “The Faerie King and His Brides. More than one bride?”
Elisandra shrugs, the light returning to her face. “The fae had a very different culture. More … open to experiencing all the delights life has to offer.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Well, perhaps longer lifespans meant they needed a bit of excitement.”
We share a grin.
“As lovely as the old books are,” she says, “these are what I really wanted to show you.”
She leads me to the stacks of portraits. Some remain in gilded frames; others are canvases nailed to rough boards. I lean close as she flips through them.
Families in grand attire gaze back, their beauty still ethereal even after all these centuries. Flecks of gold foil cling to the edges, and the paint remains impossibly vivid, as if fae magic still lingers in the pigment.
“But the fae haven’t lived in Annwyn since before the human kings,” I say, bewildered.
Elisandra nods. “These portraits are thousands of years old.”
“It’s not possible.”
Her voice softens. “You’ve been in Gwyllion long enough to see what remains of fae magic. Protection from winter storms. Ancient castles that refuse to collapse. Anything is possible.”
As I gaze down at the faces of long-dead families, something about the portraits unsettles me.
Their eyes gleam in unnatural shades of violet, blue, and green; their skin glows faintly, like moonlight trapped in paint.
I trace the jawline of a woman with silvery hair.
Her posture is regal, her gaze proud and unflinching.
Though she’s been dead for thousands of years, she feels alive, made immortal by paint and fae magic.
I exhale. “They’re remarkable.”
“And those are just the portraits. Come see the landscapes.”
I follow her to the shadow of a wardrobe carved with lilies and tulips. She flips the canvases one by one, balancing the weight against her hip. The paintings steal my breath.
The wild, raging sea, caught forever mid-storm. A canyon drenched in sunlight so golden it glows. A meadow thick with wildflowers so real I almost feel the brush of petals against my skin. And then, a castle perched upon a cliff, sunlight spilling over its towers against a flawless blue sky.
I blink. “Is that …?”
“Gwyllion.” She nods.
“It’s hardly recognizable.” Entire wings that have long-since crumbled stand whole again, bright with gleaming windows. Turrets stretch toward the clouds, tiled with patterned shingles. Gardens spill in lush waves of green, with statues of maidens and fae creatures draped in climbing roses.
“This is how I know the stories are true,” Elisandra whispers. “And this is why we fight so hard to save this place from the Fox King.”
“But you can’t bring back the past.”
“No,” she sighs. “We can’t.” Her eyes lift to mine. “But they can.”
“Who?”
“The fae.”
“I don’t understand.”
Her eyes bore into mine, begging me to see. “It’s why so many of us still pray to the old gods. The Moon Goddess gave us the Dead Queen to restore the balance between humans and fae. If the fae return, they could change everything. They could restore Gwyllion, and more.”
Her gaze drifts across the room. “And this is only the beginning. Gwyllion was a summer palace, but Annwyn holds far more: sirens and sprites, gnomes and great forests, caverns older than even the fae. Waterfalls so high their rivers vanish into clouds. Deserts so vast, no living thing has crossed them. The peace, the joy, the magic.”
“The magic?”
Elisandra closes her eyes, lost in a daydream. “Annwyn was glorious. In ways we can’t even imagine anymore.” Her voice trembles. “Someday, we hope to see it returned.” She turns to face me straight-on. “That is why we stay. Why we refuse to stop fighting for our home.”
She straightens, sniffing once. “The Heir to the North will help us. When the Dead Queen finds the Heir, they’ll sit on the human throne again and bring everything back to life.
” She gestures toward the broken mirrors and tarnished silver, the moth-eaten fabric and the splintered bedframes.
“Someday, the Heir will stop the Fox King, make peace with the fae, and restore Annwyn to its former glory. Then we’ll have no need of Dead Queens anymore. ”
I whistle softly. “Sounds like a big job.”
She nods, her expression dimming. “It is. But the Heir to the North can do it.” She pauses. “We have to believe. Without hope, we have nothing left.”