Chapter 32 Keldarion
Keldarion
Iwanted to find the underfae. Well, here they are. I just wish it didn’t come at the cost of an arrowhead at my neck.
A member of their group detaches from the rest and ambles toward me.
He moves with an unnerving grace, each step so fluid, it doesn’t match his exterior: a large mottled black-and-blue jacket that blends in with the icy wall, a mask made of little bones sewn together that covers everything except for his eyes.
His eyes…how strange they are. The irises shine with an infernal light, a brilliant amber.
And then there are his horns. Rather, they’re as huge as a caribou’s antlers, jutting out from the sides of the mask, the sharp points pierced by hanging decorations of woven fabric.
He pushes his comrade’s bow away from me so he can step closer until we’re chest to chest. “What do we have here? Trespassers.” His voice is deep and powerful, like slabs of ice falling off a glacier.
“We are no trespassers. We are on a diplomatic mission. I am High Prince Keldarion of Winter—”
“Prince, pauper, king, it makes no difference down here.” The masked underfae tilts his head, the movement eerily fluid. “Princes are just as blind in the dark.”
I hold my spine straight. Without even turning to look at her, I know Rosalina’s on edge.
She’s ready to send her briars ripping through these ice walls at any moment.
It’s up to me to find the path for negotiation.
“One of your people attempted to assassinate a member of my council. I’m here to discuss the incident with your commander. Can you bring us to them?”
The man before me is silent for a stretch, then looks to his comrades before those glowing eyes settle on me again. “How the warm years have softened a man. From swords to words, from silencing to simpering. But we know how a wicked tongue can pierce as sharp as any blade.”
My hand flexes, itching for the hilt of my sword. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Bring me to your commander so we may discuss terms.”
A sad laugh escapes the man. “The king himself comes to treat with those so below him.”
“I am no king,” I growl.
“King, cleric, chronicler.” The man turns away from me, the swatches of fabric hanging from his antlers swishing together. “Kin, conjurer, keeper of secrets. Kricksmith, kindler, keywarden. Titles given above. All ones we have no use for down here.”
“Then who do you answer to?” Rosalina says, her voice strong. “What title would make you fall to your knees?”
The man stops, looks over his shoulder at her, then keeps walking. But an echo sounds from the other underfae. “Chasm Master,” they whisper. “Chasm Master. Chasm Master.”
“Then let us meet with this Chasm Master,” Rosalina says. “Not as kings or queens or princes or princesses but as the leaders of two groups who desire peace.”
The masked underfae stills for a moment, then motions to his comrades.
Within minutes, our hands are bound, and our weapons are stripped away. The masked underfae reaches to remove the Sword of the Protector from my side, then stops. His eyes shimmer like lava pools as he stares at it.
“You know this blade?” I ask.
“I know this blade,” he responds. “Keep it. The Chasm Master has long waited to speak with the wielder of that sword.”
We begin the trek. The underfae have stamped out our torches, so we walk in pitch-darkness. They must be able to see in the dark. Our footsteps echo on the ground. But only our footsteps. The underfae tread so lightly, they barely even leave an imprint in the frost-covered ground.
The minutes stretch on. “What is your name?” I ask the masked underfae.
“Faustrius,” he responds.
An uncommon name, long out of fashion, but not one unknown to me. These strange fae, they share our language, our names, our etymology, but not our written word, based on the note Farron found.
“How long have you lived in these tunnels?” I ask.
“We do not live here,” he snarls, voice turning to gravel. “We survive because we have to.”
“Why not come to the surface? Were you trapped by the briars? At least one of you made it out,” Rosalina says.
Faustrius looks over his shoulder and studies Rosalina, then gives a disdainful scoff.
“A pretty, kept housecat asking a rat why it does not drink from the saucer of milk or sleep on its master’s bed.
But where the cat is bound by walls and windows, the rat knows the paths.
We are never trapped, only scorned. Sometimes I am truly abashed by the ignorance of the young. ”
Well, that was rude, Rosalina grumbles inside my head.
Listen to his words, Rose, I respond in kind. Never trapped. They’ve found ways around the briars before Caspian moved them. Be on guard.
I’ve been on guard before we even stepped foot in this tunnel. Didn’t help me when they can literally disappear into the rocks!
That won’t be their only trick. I flash her a look, unsure if she can see it in the dark. But we have tricks too.
Let’s hope there’s still a chance we can get out of this without resorting to such things, she says, though there’s an edge to her voice. One that makes me think she’s as interested in diplomacy as the underfae holding the spear to my back.
There’s no more attempt at conversation. I blink, peering through the murk as light flashes before me. Yes, the tunnel is opening up. A dim glow emanates. A sound like thunder booms out of the hole. Drums.
“Welcome, King, to the home of the Elderblood,” Faustrius says.
We step onto the edge of a tunnel, looking down a small rocky hill into the underfae’s camp. It opens to an enormous cavern with jagged sides that rise to the ceiling far above. A smattering of tunnels dots the walls. It is a chaotic mix of homestead and war camp.
The entire place is lit by glowing, white crystals. They remind me of the ones that grow in Cryptgarden, but they are different; this light is softer, like sunlight diffusing through a gauzy curtain.
On one side of the camp, there are crude shelters, cooking stations, and horned fae sitting around or lying on mats. A series of fire pits are arranged in a circle, but instead of burning with flames, they glow with crystals, similar to those lighting the camp.
On the other side, there are towering siege engines, including ballistae and trebuchets, and racks of armor and weapons. A horde of giant, mole-like creatures, their furless skin rippling with muscle, lumber near piles of bones—likely their meals.
Though I’d seen drawings of this camp, witnessing it in the flesh makes me realize the immensity of what we’re dealing with.
In my mind’s eye, I picture the diagrams from the map.
The tunnel to the northeast, above the trebuchets: that’s where Dayton’s team is stationed.
I don’t see any sign of them, so they must have made it through undetected. They’ll have eyes on us now.
I look to Faustrius. “Now can we meet the Chasm Master?”
A small group of underfae move toward us. Several are dressed similarly to those who ambushed us in the tunnels, with mottled jackets and bows or spears. But at their head is a woman.
Her skin is green, the color of grass Winter will never know.
Large horns, darker than her complexion, curl and jut upward into deadly points.
The same deep emerald hue spills down her back in flowing waves of hair, reaching past her waist. For a place so cold, she wears a surprisingly small amount of clothing.
Clinging to her like a second skin, the plunging neckline of her garment reveals the expanse of her bosom.
Tattered layers form a skirt that does little to conceal her muscular legs.
Fabric coils over her arms and encircles her neck, giving the illusion of a collar at first glance.
And behind her whips a long, fleshy tail, tipped with rotten, green leaves.
“Well, well, well, what have you brought me to play with?” she calls, her voice lilting.
Her eyes widen as she sets her sights on us and skips over.
In her hand, she carries a wooden spear, twisted as a gnarled root.
Small, glowing crystals encircle a blade, jagged as a shark’s tooth.
A large net curls around one arm. She bounces up toward us, then turns to Faustrius.
“He looks like royal meat.” Then she leans in, her lips at the crook of my neck, nose brushing through my hair, and inhales. “Smells like it too.”
“Get away from—” Rose begins.
Easy, I say in her mind. We made it to their camp. That’s a start.
Rosalina snaps her mouth closed, but I can see the muscles feathering in her jaw.
The underfae woman tilts her head back and laughs.
“Oh, have I touched something that belongs to you?” She prances over to Rose, then does the same to her, thrusting her nose into Rose’s hair and sniffing her neck.
“You smell like royal meat too. And something else. A thread that binds you both.” She grabs Rosalina’s face, pushing her cheeks so hard it purses her lips.
“Wha’ ah you doin’?” Rosalina attempts to snarl, but her voice is muffled.
“I must be certain.” The woman drops Rosalina’s face, then returns to me.
Her irises burn bright yellow. She runs her hands through my hair, over my eyebrows, along the stubble of my jaw.
Her tail wraps around my leg, pulling our bodies tight together.
The sensation of a hundred spider legs shivers down my spine.
“Must you do this—” I begin, but she cuts me off by grabbing the back of my head and jerking me into a kiss.
My eyes widen, but before I can do anything, she withdraws, giggling.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Rosalina growls, and the heat radiating off her could light a forest on fire.
But the woman just dances over to her, grabs her face, and kisses her. I blink, too surprised to be angry. When she pulls away, Rosalina’s cheeks are bright red.