10. Swear It
Swear It
Another village came into view along the crest of a hill, tiny cottages dotting the treeline.
“Welcome to Ruckaway,” Torren said, dismounting his horse for the final stretch of road.
Cypress mimicked his movements, pausing to stretch her legs before marching on. “Ruckaway? Never heard of it.”
“I didn’t think you would have, Lass.”
“Why?”
“Ruckaway has more of the Fair Folk than they do humans. The crown doesn’t like that.”
“King Caelith has Fair Folk blood. Why would that matter to him?”
Torren chuffed a laugh at her, but didn’t deign to respond to the question.
Instead, he directed her eye toward the center of town, where even smaller cottages lined the streets, glowing mushrooms dotting the roofs.
“We need to visit the apothecary. This village is home to one of the best Fair Folk midwives. Whenever I can, I bring back her tinctures that help with births.”
“I’m impressed.”
“That I have compassion?”
“That you respect the midwife and care how difficult a birth can be, how dangerous.”
Torren nodded. “Humans have a rough go of it.”
“I’ve been told it’s worse than warfare.”
Again, Torren nodded. “It’s even worse for those who bore children of mixed blood.”
“What do you mean?”
“If a Fair Folk woman were to join with a human and bear children, there is still risk, of course, as there is with any birth, but Fair Folk women are a bit more… hearty in that regard. Human women, on the other hand, rarely survive the birth.”
Cypress sucked in a surprised breath. “So some of those tinctures…”
“Merely dull the pain and make the ordeal less… traumatic. Others help ensure the babe’s survival.”
“And what if the woman doesn’t want the babe?” Cypress questioned, pushing to see how far the line was for the Fair Folk.
“If it is early enough, the Midwife can also help with that,” Torren replied, smiling lightly.
Cypress nodded her approval. Inside the keep, such things were common. But, she knew it was less so in the countryside. She hadn’t been aware that human mothers rarely survive birthing a child of mixed heritages, though.
“Are there many of the Fair Folk within your camp?”
He glanced toward her with a roguish grin. “Lass, I am the Prince of the Fair Folk. What do you think?”
“You sure like to throw that title around when it suits you,” Cypress noted, rolling her eyes at him.
“Well, I am.”
“You’ll wear the birthright of your mother without hesitation, but not that of your father?”
Torren snarled at her. “I don’t want anything from that man.”
Cypress held her free hand up. “Just an observation, Princeling,” she said as they reached the first of the buildings. There were several arrows embedded in the thatched roof, scorch marks along the grass.
“That seems… recent,” Cypress remarked, mounting her horse once more. Her instincts were screaming that something was wrong, but she couldn’t tell what. The wind blew through the trees all around, howling in her ears.
“That it does, Lass. That it does,” Torren agreed, similarly mounting his horse. Within moments, he also had the small hunting bow strung, fingers inches away from the quiver as they urged their horses to keep moving.
“I presume the village hadn’t been raided on your last visit?”
“Do you think I would have come back this way if it had?”
“Indulge me.”
“The village had been lively and intact when I left it, Lass,” Torren said, glaring at her for the briefest of moments.
Cypress looked past him to a half-burned cottage. From far away, the cottages had looked whole and unblemished. The majority of the homes had scorch marks where flames had licked the walls, and blood spatter caked the areas not coated in ash.
The pair kept their horses moving through the wreckage until they reached the building Torren had pointed out. It was largely intact, though badly damaged.
“Do you think anyone is home?” Cypress asked, as they hadn’t seen a single other soul since their arrival.
“She would not have abandoned her village at the first sign of trouble, but I have no doubt she would have returned to the Wylds if she did leave. If the place is abandoned, we’ll meet up with her at my camp.”
“You sound awfully sure of yourself.”
“My people can always return home,” he said, then dismounted his horse.
Cypress did the same, leaving Seren to graze on the bit of grass to the side of the cottage. Torren rapped his knuckles on the door twice, then said something in a language Cypress couldn’t place.
Silence greeted him.
Torren tried again and gave Cypress an apologetic smile. Still, nothing but silence answered, so he pushed the door open.
The interior of the small building was dark, the window entirely concealed by a large plant that filtered the meager light from the waning day.
Shelving covered every wall from baseboard to ceiling, which once must have held a treasure trove of herbs and tinctures.
Nothing more than a few empty jars and vials lined the shelves, and various powders spilled on the wood. Broken glass littered the floor.
“Looks like either she made a hasty retreat or someone drove her out,” Cypress commented, pushing the toe of her boot through the debris on the floor.
“Or both,” Torren retorted as he ducked under a curtain that led to the rear of the home.
Cypress hummed her agreement, trailing after Torren as he sifted through the wreckage of the cottage.
Torren took a few more minutes to comb through the debris, leaving no pile unturned, before he turned back and looked at Cypress. “It’s not wise to linger past dark. Let's find somewhere to camp off the road.”
Cypress made a motion with her hand as if to say, be my guest, and nodded her head for him to lead the way.
Torren rolled his storm grey eyes at her, but walked out of the house without a backward glance. Once outside, Cypress quickly mounted her horse, trotting after Torren into the night.
The edge of the forest was like a wall of shrubbery and tree trunks, but they slipped between and into the dark like phantoms. The horses easily followed a game trail until Torren slowed his mount, Seren matching the pace easily.
Torren led them into yet another natural ring of trees, ringed with small red and blue-capped mushrooms.
“Torren. Are we camping in a fucking Faerie ring?”
He laughed. Actually laughed.
“Took ye long enough, Lass. We’ve been camping in them since the first night.”
“Forgive me for not assuming you’d lead me into a trap each night,” Cypress snarked, taking stock of where she truly stood for the first time.
“It’s only a trap if you are lured inside. I didn’t lure you, Lass.”
“I’m going to strangle you.”
“Oh, don’t be violent with me, Lass.”
“I haven’t even begun being violent, thief,” Cypress muttered.
Again, he laughed at her but didn’t comment again.
Gritting her teeth, Cypress began to unsaddle her horse while Torren walked in a circle, whispering nonsense to himself.
She tried to ignore it, but eventually, Cypress couldn’t stand it and snapped, “What are you doing?”
“With how close we are to the Wylds now, it is unwise to visit a Faerie ring and not give your thanks. The Dryaads are always listening.”
“Do you realize how crazy that sounds?”
“Don’t tell me you’re completely uneducated on the traditions of the Fair Folk?”
“You mean superstitions?”
Torren shook his head. “You are in for a rude awakening when we arrive at the Wylds proper, Lass.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cypress demanded while running a brush down her mare’s back.
“Were you never told the legends? The stories of the time before the First Kings?”
“They’re stories, fables used to keep naughty children in line.”
Torren shook his head. “You believe me when I say I am who I am, right?’
Reluctantly, Cypress nodded.
“Then believe me when I tell you the stories, the legends are all true. And you’re on your way to confirm that the Old Ones are awakening. You'd best start believing those superstitions, Lass. They may very well save yer life.”
“What did you tell Cade that made him scared?” Cypress demanded, stashing her tools back away in the saddlebags now lying against one of the tree trunks.
“The truth.”
“Which is?” Cypress was rapidly losing her patience.
“The Wylds have begun whispering. Giants have awoken, the Old ones with them. When they all wake, the Wyld Hunt will resume, and no one in the human lands will be safe.”
The stories of the Wyld Hunt were just that. Stories. Legends and folklore from a time before history was written down.
“That’s just a story,” Cypress insisted, shaking her head.
“No, Lass. It’s not. It’s the truth. The First Kings weren’t really the first, either,” he remarked, then grabbed his bow.
“Now I know you’re trying to deceive me.”
Torren shook his head at her, as if she had failed some test. “I’ll be back soon, Lass. Don’t leave the ring.”
“Why can’t I leave it now? You’ve never said it before.”
“We’re close enough to the Wylds now that you can never be sure what roams the woods. A pretty human like yourself is like the sweetest bait, dangling on a wire to many of my kind.”
Cypress gritted her teeth, but nodded nonetheless. Torren disappeared through the trees, and then she was alone again, resigned to build a fire and bake some of the quick rock bread that paired well with fresh game.
By the time she had mixed the milled grains and the last bit of butter she’d portioned since coming across a market a few days back, Torren was once again stepping through the trees, carrying a smallish hare in his hand.
“That smells good,” He mumbled, seemingly to himself, as he placed the hare on one of the wide, flat stones near the edge of the tree ring.
Torren worked in silence as he skinned and dressed the animal, while Cypress watched the rock breads cook, flipping them as necessary.
When she was done, she retrieved the sachets of spices and herbs from the saddlebags to sprinkle over the meat before it went over the fire.