21. Rhoham Brook
Rhoham Brook
Once more on the road, Cypress kept quiet as Torren led their horses deeper into the Wylds. He’d traded the mount given to him by the Keep for his own mount at A'aravos Paravale. This horse was also a buckskin like Seren, but without the sooty cast Cypress’s horse carried.
Try as she might, Cypress struggled to keep her thoughts on her task and where Torren was leading her. Time and time again, her mind would drift back to the previous night. Cypress trusted the thief, that much painfully obvious after what they’d done, after the things she let Torren do to her.
But what did that mean?
Surely the only reason she had been able to trust the male was that they shared an oath of honesty, right?
Cypress didn’t want to think about that, though. Didn’t want to dwell on how he’d coaxed pleasure from her without taking anything for himself.
But, did his lack of attempts at more mean he thought her repulsive, though? Had Torren felt sick while bringing Cypress to the edge over and over again?
Rolling her shoulders, Cypress sat taller in her saddle, resolute to cast those thoughts from her mind.
When they departed A’aravos Paravale, it was with a new companion. A small bay pack horse laden with supplies was roped to Torren’s saddle, another length of rope strung from his pommel to Cypress’s.
Cypress and Torren had set off in the early hours of the day, truly not long after he departed her rooms.
After they’d…
Oh, what a mess she’d made.
Cypress still couldn’t wrap her mind around the notion that she, an orphan at the Keep, had Fair Folk blood. It was an absurd idea, one that Cypress had never even thought to entertain.
There had never been any indication of anything other about her, and the orphanage thoroughly tested the children before sending them off for our eventual assignments.
Some orphans went to the kitchens to learn the art of cooking and baking. Others went to the schools to be scribes, while a select few were sent to labor camps– the ones who had bone structure denser than others, who, Cypress dimly realized, likely had giant or troll blood.
And then, orphans like Cypress, who had a fervor for the heat of battle, who didn’t lose their stomachs at the sight of blood, were sent to the armies.
In all her training, never once had even a hint of power of any kind shown itself. There had been plenty of harrowing experiences in her day for any ability to show itself. But, Cypress was still ordinary.
Cypress could remember when Shale, one of the older kids, fell from the walls of the Keep, only to have gossamer wings erupt from his spine just in time to save him.
Cypress never saw Shale again. And she never had an ability reveal itself, but not without her many attempts. She pushed herself in training in the hopes that one day she’d get herself in a bind so desperate that any such powers would have to reveal themselves.
But there had always been nothing. No spark, nothing but her beating heart.
Cypress put aside those thoughts for another time, and instead brought her horse even with Torren’s, and asked, “So these hounds.”
“Yes?”
“What do they look like?”
Torren huffed a laugh. “Imagine a dog, as big as a house, with wings large enough to blot out the sun. The back paws are more like thick, scaly claws. Glowing amber eyes. They are almost always black, with some tan and white points.”
“And… what do they do?”
“Lass, do you not know any of the stories?” Torren asked, exasperated.
“Clearly not enough. Everything I was taught about Fair Folk was done at the orphanage, and then very little with Cade after I became his companion. If what you say is true about Caelith’s motives regarding the Fair Folk is true, then I cannot trust the information I have to be complete, let alone accurate,” Cypress said, then added, “humor me.”
Torren sighed. “The Winged Hounds were part of the original Hunt.
Humans stalked into the woods with a thousand hounds, all trained to scent and herd Fair Folk to slaughter.
As the stories go, one of our Druids laid a curse upon the hunt, calling on the energies of all of the spirits of Faerie.
The curse took all those who had participated in the hunt, including the hounds. Something went wrong, though.
“The next waxing moon, the Hunt rose once more, at the helm the Old One. The once ordinary hounds used by the humans were now winged beasts, caught between realms. Their call will strike fear into even the bravest of Fair folk, as they thirst for the blood of the betrayer, those who first shackled them to the Hunt– their human trainers who are already dead. They will charge across the world once the Old One is fully awoken. And then, nothing will be left in their wake.”
“And they have… tombs? Seems strange for an already dead thing to have a tomb.”
Torren cut a look toward her, unease written all over his face.
“It is merely a resting place. When the Hunt first rose, the destruction it reaped was catastrophic, for humankind and Fair Folk. Eventually, we came to an agreement to join forces for the good of all in order to put the Old One to rest.”
Cypress nodded. “And that's where the scepter comes in?”
“Correct. When the Hunt was subdued, the Hounds were all put to rest in warded tombs.”
“And what did you mean by the first kings aren’t really the first?”
Torren sighed once more. “The Hunt has risen eleven times. Each time, Humankind has been practically wiped from existence. The humans who survive, rebuild, and call themselves the first.”
“But not Faerie?”
“Faerie has not seen the same level of destruction as the human lands in some time, though that is not to say we haven’t suffered losses.”
“So why is everything waking up once more?”
“It’s… Complicated.”
“In what way?”
“We’ve never understood why the Hunt keeps rising. A betting man might say it has something to do with the curse.”
“But not you?”
Torren shrugged. “That remains to be seen.”
Cypress didn’t press further.
Instead, she dismounted her horse in favor of walking for a while. Perhaps the miles ahead would help her clear her mind. While it wouldn’t take her and Torren as long to reach the tomb as it had to get to A’aravos Paravale, the constant movement was taking its toll on her nerves.
Cypress knew the tomb of the Winged Hounds was a few days' ride to the south, but in comparison to the other ones marked, this tomb was far closer than any of the others dotting the map she’d seen in the castle.
When Torren glanced back to verify she and the horses were all still behind him, he also dismounted. Together, they all walked on while the sun inched across the sky, clouds drifting by as the wind whistled through the trees.
“You said once that human women rarely survive childbirth. Does Faerie know why?” Cypress asked some time later, unable to shake free from the curiosity.
“Many of our healers believe it has to do with the baby taking too much from the mother. Too much, they can’t replenish, so by the time the labor comes, they are far too weak to endure the stress.”
“And the others?”
Torren shrugged. “Some say it’s merely the will of the Mother, while others say it is because humans are inferior. I am not inclined to agree with either.”
Cypress nodded, understanding that she’d never know her mother, despite how much the thought ached. She had thought she’d rid herself of the overwhelming emptiness that came with being orphaned, and yet…
“Is there a way to track my Fair Folk heritage?”
“Well, the easiest way would be if you had any powers, which, given your… surprise at finding out last night, I’d guess you don’t have any.”
“Correct. I’ve witnessed them manifesting in others, but nothing has ever shown itself to me.”
“I’ll take you to see Havanj after we visit the tombs. She’ll be able to determine where in Faerie you hail from.”
“She’ll be able to find my…” Cypress stalled, the word father drying her throat. “Relatives?”
“Possibly, but it is unlikely. At minimum, she’ll be able to confirm Pixie blood.
If she’s encountered any of your relatives, Havanj would be able to give you that information, but I must warn ye Lass, if you were orphaned inside of the Keep, there’s a good chance that whoever it was is now long dead. ”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because children are sacred to the Fair Folk. In the instance that a human mother does not survive childbirth, the babies are often brought back to Faerie to be raised. Since you were not, your father was either gravely injured before your birth and had to leave your mother, or was killed.”
Cypress didn’t know how to respond. Every time they spoke about the Grethnah and Faerie, it seemed like she knew less and less.
Once, Cypress would have said she was intelligent, that she knew about the kingdom, and its people– their histories. After only a few weeks on the road, Cypress now understood she barely knew anything at all.
Torren didn’t say anything else, so the pair walked on through the forest, the path and trees ever shifting, morphing.
Every step further into the Wylds was different.
One moment, Cypress would be walking through a bright, airy forest with tall trees, branches only at the very tips, with the barest grass coverage in the dappled sunlight.
Next, the forest would shift, closing in around them, gnarled branches reaching like hands to grab at loose fabric, the tips of her hair.
The trees seemed to breathe, a gentle inhale and exhale through the leaves.
Moss lined the edges of the path, growing along the base of the trunks.
The forests of Grethnah were dense in some areas, though they were mostly made of young, thin trees that one could wrap their arms around easily.
These trees, no matter what the forest around her looked like at that moment, were thick.
Ancient things that had seen the rise and fall of uncountable sunrises and sunsets.
And all around was life. Bugs of every size flitted through the branches, munching on leaves. Birds as large as a dog soared overhead through the tall canopies, trilling and chirping in a song Cypress could listen to for an age.
Torren was silent for a long time, only speaking when the ground softened, her boots no longer pounding on hardened, packed dirt. Instead, her heels sank into the dirt, a much-needed respite for her aching feet.
“We will be coming upon Rhoham Brook soon. We can take a rest there and eat something.”
Cypress nodded and kept walking. The forest still shifted around them, ticking like the gears of a clock with every step they took through the wilderness. And with every beat of her heart, Cypress tried to reconcile her apparent heritage with her life and her place in Grethnah.
Would it change anything if Caelith and Cade were to find out about the Pixie blood in her veins? Cypress didn’t know.
So, she kept walking, gazing out into the trees, memorizing every detail of this forest–just in case she never saw it again.
Cypress felt the slight shift in the Wylds only moments before Torren said, “Here we are, Lass.”
They’d stepped into another Faerie ring, this one roughly the same size as the throne room at A’aravos Paravale. The first thing Cypress noticed was the colors.
Everything seemed to be made of sunlight. Clear water the color of turquoise bubbled over rocks, filtered through long grasses. Flowers bloomed on the edges of the brook, swaying in the breeze. Cypress spun in a circle, absorbing every detail of the area.
Branches swayed in the breeze, leaves and petals drifting by on an errant wind. Golden sunlight dappled her skin.
“This is…” Cypress started, but couldn’t come up with a word to describe how she truly felt.
Torren chuckled. “It’s just a brook, Lass. Don’t get too poetic.”
“How can you say that when this exists? This is wonderful.”
Torren shrugged. “This is my home, Cypress.”
“So you are immune to the beauty around you?” Cypress asked, giving him a shrewd examination. “I pity you.”
“I did not say I was immune to it. But it is my home. What is new and beautiful to you is known by me, and has been known by my people for centuries, Lass. Your discovery of my lands’ beauty is not something I feel the need to celebrate.”
“So just because your people have known this–” Cypress said, stretching her arms wide, indicating to the landscape around them. “-For their whole lives, I cannot profess the joy I feel at seeing it for the first time?”
“No one said you can’t enjoy it. I merely said it was my home, which you took to mean something derogatory.”
Cypress grit her teeth, scowling at him.
Torren had the nerve to chuckle.
“How long until we are back on the road?” Cypress asked, in an effort to control the urge to strangle Torren.
“Are you ready to go so soon?”
She gave him a scathing look. “No, I was merely asking.”
Torren tilted his chin, gesturing for her to explore. “Go on, go discover the beauty of Faerie. We can rest a while yet. You’re safe in the ring.”
“Oh, thank you for your permission, your highness. I don’t know what I would have done without it,” Cypress said while rolling her eyes, and stalked over to the edge of the brook.
She deftly untied her boots, discarding them on the bank, and rolled the hem of her pants. Then, she eased into the cool, clear water. It reached her knees, just under the line of her rolled pants.
Sighing contentedly, Cypress began to seek out any and all pretty or unusual pebbles within the sparkling water. She was methodical in her sweep through the riverbed and found several rocks that caught and reflected sunlight in their many facets.
Cypress thought they would look nice set into jewelry or lined up on her bookshelf.