16
The walk to the edge of the city didn’t really take long, Idhri thought, but it felt like hours.
He thought of picking up Councillor Emerlyn to carry her so they could go faster.
She didn’t look as if she weighed very much.
He wanted to plead with both women to hurry, hurry, hurry.
He couldn’t banish the memory of Braithe allowing the fae man with the terrible eyes to bind her.
Idhri shuddered at the memory of how that felt, the loss of control, the absence of agency.
He should have run after her, charged through the chamber despite being told to stay out of it.
He should have shouted, demanded someone intervene.
Logic told him it wouldn’t have worked. They already thought he was less than a person because he was a half-blood.
No one would have listened, and the fae man would simply have bound him as well.
Then Morgana would have had no idea what happened to either of them.
He knew all that was true, but he still blamed himself.
He had promised to be Braithe’s protector.
He aspired to be her champion. If anything happened to her, he would never get over it.
Idhri knew nothing of scrying beyond the mentions Morgana had made of her difficulties here in the White City.
The reflective pool turned out to be so far to the northwest boundary of the city that he could see the fields and woods beyond.
He watched as the priestess and the councillor braced themselves on the stone surround that circled the pool and bent to gaze into the clear water.
At first he stayed back, afraid of distracting them, but as the minutes flew by, the intensity of their focus mesmerized him, drawing him forward.
They didn’t speak. They barely seemed to breathe. Surely, such rapt attention meant they saw something!
Little by little, he crept near them, careful his steps made no sound.
The councillor had produced a ribbon from somewhere to tie her long hair back.
Morgana held hers in one hand, barely keeping the ends of it from skimming the water.
Idhri peered past her shoulder at the surface of the pool, searching for what they saw.
He half expected to see fish, or perhaps a frog or two, but the pool was utterly pristine, empty of anything that might have stirred its surface.
The bronze rays of the setting sun gleamed on the smooth surface, making it mirror-bright.
Idhri didn’t know if that was good or bad.
When he heard Morgana murmur, “Emerlyn. Do you see it?” he drew a sharp breath that hissed in his throat. Morgana put up her free hand for quiet, but she made no remonstrance. She leaned as far beyond the surround as she could, staring into the pool.
Emerlyn, after an endless moment in which Idhri had to clamp his jaw to keep silent, whispered, “I do.”
Idhri could not resist. He stepped close and leaned above Morgana. He narrowed his eyes, searching for whatever it was the two women saw.
At first he saw only the shine of the dying light, but then—in a way he could not have explained—he saw… What was it?
A wall, like the one encircling this pond, except it was high, higher than his head. There was a break in it, a gate, and he thought he saw a house beyond, with a black door. Was it all imagination, born of his need?
Emerlyn sighed, and the image broke apart, at least to Idhri’s eyes. Morgana kept her eyes on the pool, not moving for what seemed to Idhri a very long time. Finally she, too, exhaled. She straightened and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “I have not seen this house.”
“There are many such houses,” Emerlyn said. “Each delegate has one. We could not visit them all.”
“I must try,” Morgana said, her eyes flashing gold.
“I will go with you,” Idhri said.
Morgana turned to him. “Did you see it?”
“I saw… something.”
“Braithe is trying to show us where she is.”
“Is it a house? With a wall, and a black door?”
“You surprise me,” Emerlyn said sharply. “I would not have thought a half-blood—”
Morgana interrupted her, saying firmly, “Exactly right, Idhri. Your fae blood is strong.”
Idhri made no answer, but a little swell of relief rose in his breast at the thought that there was one thing, at least, good about being a half-blood.
They were walking away from the pool when he felt the curtain in his mind twitch aside. It was a brief movement, a flash of something he had not seen before. It was a glimpse behind that curtain, a flash of flames, as of a cook fire, maybe the outline of a rough-looking cabin… but then it was gone.
That curtain had refused to budge even an inch for more than two years, since Emma and Hugh took him in.
What was it about being here, in this frightening moment, with magic flooding around him, that had moved it?
He could only hope that when this crisis had passed, when they had found Braithe safe, he might be able to figure it out.
He feared it was nothing good.
A meal was delivered to Faolin’s house by a trio of servants, one a half-blood who pronounced the cantrip for the garden gate and the front door, the others humans who kept their gazes averted when Faolin appeared.
Gwen took the tray from them and carried it into the kitchen.
Faolin followed, took what he wanted from it, and disappeared again into his own chamber.
Braithe sat down with Gwen at the table, but she had little appetite. She made herself eat a little salad and a bit of cheese, just the same. If her plan worked, she would need her strength.
Gwen ate well but hurriedly, as if she thought she would be interrupted at any time.
Or perhaps she feared her food would be taken away from her.
Braithe supposed that living as she did, she could never be certain of anything.
Braithe couldn’t help pitying the poor thing, despite her resemblance to the hated changeling.
When Gwen had eaten everything she was given, Braithe asked, “Have you been with Sero Faolin ever since you were taken, Gwen?”
Gwen put down her eating-knife, but she kept her eyes on the now-empty plate before her. “Nay.”
“He wasn’t the one who…?”
Gwen shook her head, and when she looked up, the despair in her eyes wrung Braithe’s heart. “It was another. He was just as bad. And when he was done, he gave me back to Faolin.”
“That’s terrible. Tragic.”
Gwen’s breath whistled in her throat. “I have considered—sometimes I think it would be better—” She didn’t finish her sentence, but Braithe heard it clearly.
Death. There could be no doubt about her hearing thoughts now.
She wondered if they would always be painful ones, thoughts produced by stress and misery.
She leaned forward. “I will help you, Gwen. When I am returned to my mistress, I will help you.”
Gwen dropped her gaze again, shaking her head. “It won’t happen. He has you now.” Her voice grew so faint Braithe could barely hear her. “I’m sorry to say, Braithe, but if he tires of you, he will simply sell you to someone else. It doesn’t get better.”
Braithe piled the remnants of the half-eaten meal onto its tray. Automatically, she picked up her plate and Gwen’s and brushed crumbs into the bread basket. Gwen said, “You’re used to service.”
“I am handmaid to Priestess Morgana.”
“Who’s that?”
“She is the greatest of the Nine Priestesses of the Lady’s Temple.”
“Oh! I remember something about that, before—before.”
“Yes. It’s a wonderful place.” Braithe pushed the tray to one end of the table and took the chair nearest Gwen’s. “You must have been only a girl when they stole you,” she said. “Will you tell me what happened?”
Gwen pressed her finger over a random crumb and crushed it in her palm.
“I was thirteen,” she said. “My father was thinking of marriage for me, something advantageous for the family.” She scraped the remains of the crumb off her hand onto the floor.
“He—my father—was a minor lord of the western demesnes. A man and two women, strangers to us, came and persuaded him I should meet their lord, someone important in the south, a prince. My mother objected, but my father was ambitious.”
“He sent you away with them? Just like that?”
“They were very persuasive. Even I was excited, thinking I might become a princess.”
“They magicked you.”
“My mother wasn’t convinced, but my father locked her in a tower room. She screamed for me, but it did no good.”
“And they—the man and the women—brought you here.”
“Yes. I didn’t know they were fae. I didn’t know anything about the fae. I had never heard of the White City until I came here.”
“And the man—was it Faolin?”
“Be careful.” Gwen put a finger to her lips.
“He will hear you.” Braithe waited, and in a moment, Gwen went on, speaking softly, hurriedly.
Braithe had to lean close to hear. “It was Faolin,” she said.
“When he—when he handed me over to the other man, I thought perhaps that was my prince. I didn’t know anything of men.
” She added, sadly, “Now I know too much.”
Braithe started to say something sympathetic, but Faolin’s door opened, and he appeared in the entrance to the kitchen. With his eyes fixed on Braithe, he said, “Gwen. My things.”
Instantly, Gwen pushed herself up and scurried out. She came back a moment later with a plate and cup and a half-eaten loaf. She added these to the tray, then stood, her head down, her hands hanging empty beside her, until Faolin said, “That’s all for today. Go.”
She went.
Braithe rose and stood with her feet a little apart, wary, ready to run even though there was nowhere she could run to. Faolin braced his hands on the back of a chair as he fixed her with his yellow gaze. “So now you know the story,” he said coolly. “Is that what you came for?”
“It is not,” she said.