xx. In which leaving the vale does not go well
The air was so much warmer than it had been in the vale that Arthur’s head throbbed at the change. Downstream the water carved
into the landscape deeper and deeper, heading into the ravine, but here it only came up to Arthur’s knees.
Arthur tore a thorn from his hand and splashed clumsily through, forgetful of the knapsack and watch and novels and shoes
he’d left behind. Forgetful of his wet socks, his many scratches, his torn shirt, his throbbing hand, the blood beading on
his palm—even Calyx wrapping itself around his body. All he could think of were the wheel tracks in the heather, and Charlotte
coming into the forest after him.
Unconcerned with such things, Freya jumped from rock to rock. She made a face when water splashed her toes but otherwise seemed
pleased to be leaving the eternal winter of the vale.
Arthur hadn’t reached the opposite shore when the water upstream bubbled. He froze. Wide-eyed, Freya leaped from a final rock
and landed on the opposite bank. She glared, tail twitching.
A maiden arose from depths the stream did not have.
She stood forlornly with water trailing from her white frock and golden hair and ashen skin.
Arthur didn’t know what she was, but he knew enough about fairy stories to take a step back.
His chest heaved. Back beyond the brambles, Ira was still calling for him.
The maiden’s voice burbled like water running over rocks. “Help me.”
“How?” Arthur asked cautiously.
She held out her arms. “Carry me across.”
That seemed an odd request, given her circumstances, but it also seemed like a bad idea to refuse.
“Why?”
“Carry me across.”
The cat hissed. Arthur felt she probably had the right idea of things.
“With all due respect—”
The maiden stepped closer without a splash. Arthur didn’t like that.
“Carry me across.”
“I’m—I’m likely to drop you.” One could not be rude to fairies, or things like fairies, but by God he didn’t want to find
out what would happen if he touched her. “I’m not very strong.”
She closed the gap between them, much less sickly than her ashen skin had made her appear. She wore a forlorn expression,
but her dark, sad eyes gleamed hungrily.
Her voice shifted, no longer burbling but thundering like water over a cliffside, sudden and deadly. “Carry me across.”
“No—no, that’s all right, you don’t want me to—”
Her eyes flashed red. “Carry me across!”
She plunged a hand to his chest, her fingernails sharp as talons. Arthur cried out, struggling, but her nails clawed into
him.
Freya launched herself at the maiden. The maiden stumbled, releasing Arthur, but she threw the cat off. Her red eyes glinted.
“Oh no.” Arthur splashed away from her, but the bank didn’t seem any closer. “Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh—”
She yanked him back. He fell with a splash, sputtering, with water up his nose. Baring too many, too sharp teeth, she grabbed
his collar, pulled him to his knees—
A raven burst over the brambles. It swooped at the maiden, grabbing her hair in its talons. Shrieking, she released Arthur.
The raven pulled away, circled briefly, and dove. Its talons raked the maiden’s face, drawing greenish blood. She screeched.
With a splash, the raven shivered into an antlered man. Ira stumbled as he landed, leg buckling, but he righted himself and
shoved Arthur toward the bank.
“Get to shore.”
The maiden lunged toward Ira. He shivered into a wolf and stood, growling, between her and Arthur.
Arthur stared. Knowing Ira could shape-shift was one thing; seeing it was another. George had only said he turned into a stag.
And despite his refusal to leave the vale before, Ira was here. Just because Arthur needed him.
Something tugged at Arthur’s trousers. He flinched, then saw the cat on the nearest rock, batting at his leg.
“Quite right.”
The maiden flew at Ira. Snarling, the wolf leaped to meet her. Arthur stumbled onto dry land.
Behind him, the wolf yelped. Arthur found a stick half as long as he was and so heavy he almost couldn’t lift it. He dragged
it back toward the stream. It scraped against his injured hands.
The maiden swayed toward Ira. He panted, ears flat against his head. Blood trickled into his scarred eye. His sides heaved,
but he bared his teeth.
Arthur splashed into the water, wielding his stick. He smacked the maiden in the shoulder—hardly enough to do more than anger her, but it distracted her. She turned angry red eyes on him.
The wolf hurled himself at her. They landed in the water together, thrashing; then they went still.
Arthur’s mouth was dry. “Ira?”
The wolf heaved. Arthur gripped his stick tight, unsure whether Ira was getting up or if the maiden had proven triumphant
and was pushing him off. No—the wolf rose shakily, coughed once, and turned toward him. The maiden’s pallid body drifted away,
spilling into the ravine.
“Ira?”
The wolf shivered into a man, but he collapsed. The maiden’s greenish blood rimmed his lips. His own blood stained the left
side of his face.
Arthur shivered. He was safe, or seemed to be. If he left now, he could search for Charlotte, not that he knew where to start.
Freya wove back and forth on the bank, mewling as if to say, Come on, let’s go.
But Ira had saved his life. Ira had left the vale, even though Arthur had shouted at him and shoved him. Even though the forest
made it difficult to leave, and Ira so desperately hadn’t wanted to.
Setting the stick down, Arthur approached him. “Let me help you up.”
Ira nodded wearily. His eyes raked over Arthur’s face and bloody hand. “You’re injured.”
Arthur laughed, a little hysterically. “Have you seen yourself?”
Ira’s forehead and upper arm bled. Arthur’s stomach clenched, but he pulled Ira to his feet and supported him. Together, they
made their way toward the brambles. With a grumble, Freya followed.
To Arthur’s annoyance, the brambles opened before them. He couldn’t help saying accusingly, “You said there was no way out, with the bridge gone.”
“Yes, well,” Ira said, his voice even hoarser than usual, “I wouldn’t call a hungry glaistig’s stretch of water a way out.”
Arthur didn’t argue the point. Instead he asked, “Should I have carried her across, after all?”
“She would’ve killed you either way.”
The brambles closed behind them. Arthur’s hand throbbed where a thorn had pierced it. He swallowed back a lump in his throat.
He’d escaped the vale only to come right back.