Chapter Twenty-Four
Lachlan is not in the castle when I step out of the portal tapestry that afternoon, and I find myself instead surrounded by a dozen blinking fae, all lying about on sofas and carpets, still half asleep despite the fact it’s nearly noon.
It strikes me then how different they are from their kin in the World Below, in their coats and shoes and cravats, however fantastically adorned with lace and gems; as different as dogs from wolves.
I think of what Lachlan told me about them having sojourned in the human world too long, and now I see what he meant.
Remembering what happened the last time I set foot here, I put my hand on my skirt, feeling the weight of the iron snuffer beneath it. But I see no sign of the faerie who attacked me, and no others come reaching for my throat.
“Where is he?” I demand.
They goggle, until I step to one and yank on his lacy cravat. Then he starts and says, “The waterfall, north of here.”
“Take me to him now.”
The faerie hisses, baring pointed teeth in irritation. “Look, the human is hysterical. Typical mortal, overstating its importan—”
The faerie cuts off in a yelp, thanks to the stinging knot I Weave in a trice. He rubs his shoulder, where my magic pricked him like a needle, and glares at me.
“I could snap your neck, girl.”
“Go on, then. I’m sure your master will look leniently upon you for it.”
Snarling, he relents and stalks away. I follow at his heels, reaching threateningly for my spool whenever he slows. In a way, dealing with these sulky, strange fae is not dissimilar to handling a classroom of surly ten-year-olds.
We trek for several minutes over a rise; the land here is a jumble of rock outcrops and tumbling ravines, with little foliage higher than my waist. A brittle wind grazes among the dry heather and seems to startle and flee at our approach, setting the moor to crackling.
Soon the sound is drowned out by the rush of water, and we come to a stony, glacial blue stream carving its way through the land in a frantic rush. A short distance upriver, my escort gives an indignant wave, then departs the way we’d come.
I squeeze through two sharp boulders and see a bright but small waterfall pouring into a round basin, the spot quite hidden by high crags of rock. Lachlan sits beneath the water, his head tilted back so that it drags at his hair. When he sees me, he rises, and with a curse, I turn around.
He’s completely naked.
My cheeks flame; I fold my arms and try to forget what little I saw as he approaches from behind me. Spotting a cashmere robe slung over a rock, I grab it and toss it blindly back, then stare very hard at a patch of silver-blue lichen clinging to the boulder in front of me.
“You burst in upon me, Rose dearest,” he says in my ear, making me jump. “Such blushing modesty—how exquisitely mortal you are.”
I turn hesitantly and am relieved to see he has covered himself. His white hair hangs nearly to his collarbone, as silk smooth as ever and dripping with freezing water. The cold doesn’t seem to affect him in the slightest; he truly is a creature with winter in his heart.
“I’d nearly forgotten,” he says, as he runs his fingers through his wet hair, shaking water from it and leaving it in a tangle. “The water up here is less tainted than it is in the south. Its teeth still hold a wild bite. You ought to give it a try. Let it wash the mortal stench off you.”
I only look at him and feel a seething anger rise behind my eyes. How did I ever feel a stir of warmth at his touch? How did his flattery ever bring a blush to my cheeks? How could I have been such a fool?
Lachlan takes one look at me, and his expression sobers. “You saw her.”
“Saw her!” I shout, a dam bursting. “I did a good deal more than see her, you lying snake! You knew, you knew from the beginning what Conrad North was, and that I’d meet him and he’d tie a truth knot over me and you meant for me to meet him.
All of this was some grand, devilish scheme to which I never agreed! ”
“Sit down and cease with this shrieking. Let us talk as reasonable—”
“I will not sit down!” Surprising even myself, I plant my hand on his chest and give him a shove.
His eyes widen in astonishment. “I will take no more commands from you, Manannán, or the Briar King, or whatever you truly call yourself, not after you’ve done nothing but lie and manipulate and use me.
I didn’t meet Conrad by chance. You threw me into his path. ”
His face warps, anger contorting the cool line of his mouth. All civility, all gentility is gone as his mask drops completely. “Of course I used you. Was that not evident from the beginning? Did I not make it clear I had a use for you? And as for the rest, you can thank me. Oh, yes, thank me!”
I scoff, and he raises his finger, like a scolding schoolteacher.
“Oh, think it through, Rose. You are no idiot, despite this display of irrationality. Conrad North would snap your neck before he let you set foot in Elfhame. Or what do you think happened to poor old Fiona?”
My eyes widen.
“That’s right,” he continues. “She ran afoul of the Gatekeeper, that’s what. Liam North killed her, and his son would not hesitate to kill you if he knew your true purpose.”
“No,” I breathe. “He wouldn’t.”
Would he? After all, how well do I know Conrad? Not nearly well enough, given he’s been hiding the fact he’s the fae queen’s Gatekeeper all this time.
Who knows what he might be capable of or the extremes to which he might go? I touch my lips, feeling his kiss again. Just a show for the queen’s sake, he’d claimed.
Oh yes, he seems capable of great extremes.
Lachlan continues. “I told you just enough to set you on your way, and it worked. You’re behind Conrad North’s defenses. You’re in his confidence.”
I look beyond him, to the waterfall, my thoughts an angry snarl. I’d known before I even came here what his defense would be, but it doesn’t soothe me in the least.
“Now tell me about Morgaine,” he says. “Did you speak to her? Does she have any idea you work for me?”
Now that I study him, I see his similarities to Morgaine. His coloring is entirely different, but their bone structures are very much alike, long and finely carved, able to go from snow-soft to ice-sharp in a moment.
“You’re related,” I realize.
He nods once. “The faerie queen is my sister. Or was, before she betrayed me.”
I always figured him for a faerie lord; now I know he is faerie royalty. And that brutal savagery is a family trait. As is manipulating mortals like marionettes.
I see Conrad as if in mirror to myself. He is caught up with the faerie queen in the same way I am bound to Lachlan.
The how and why of it may differ, but we are both but tools to immortals far older and stranger than I could imagine.
Whatever the nature of the game between Lachlan and Morgaine, I see now that Conrad and I are the pieces they have selected to pit against one another.
“Did she threaten you?” Lachlan asks, likely misreading the horror on my face.
“She was going to erase every memory from my head,” I say shakily, “down to my very name.”
Lachlan gives me a grave look, then sighs and flicks his fingers. “Walk with me, and start at the beginning.”
For a moment, I hesitate. I cannot trust him, of that I have no doubt. I want to tell him nothing.
But I cannot dismiss the reality of my predicament. I am alone in the wilds of Scotland, with no way out. Even if I turned and walked away now, I would not make it far.
No, I need time to plan and think and find out what’s really going on here. And so, for now, that means playing along.
We follow the burn through the rocks, leaving the silver waterfall behind.
I tell Lachlan of how I found Conrad battling Tarkin’s fire-bears, and how I followed him into Elfhame.
Lachlan’s eyes narrow when I tell him how I met the queen of the fae, and he nods knowingly when I tell him of the revel and the memory-altering spells.
“It is disgusting,” he half snarls. “The way they lull themselves into forgetting, spreading a veneer over the past as if that could erase it. As if it could save them. They are like drunkards drowning their woes. Pathetic.”
“What are you, really?” I ask. “Why were you exiled from Elfhame, and all these other fae with you? I want the truth. Can’t you just give me something real?”
“Like what?”
“Your name, for starters. Your true name. There is no reason to keep secrets from me now, is there?”
He blinks, and a fog masks his eyes. His gaze fixes over my shoulder, and his terrible age drags at the corners of his mouth.
He will not answer, I think at first. He will think it beneath him to explain himself to a mere mortal, and one who has so grandly twisted up the finely laid strings of his scheming.
But then he stirs, like a gargoyle shaking off its stone casing. His eyes, when they meet mine, hold something I would call sorrow, if I thought him capable of it. Instead, I suspect it to be another manipulation.
“I have many names, so many I cannot recall which was the first. Manannán, Oirbsen, those are only a few. And once, I was king of Elfhame.” He lifts his chin, his eyes going to the sky.
“Morgaine was my sister, and together we were the last of our kind, the Tuath Dé, with the last of the aos sí, the lesser fae races, relying on us for their survival. The humans had pushed us back and ever back, and we knew we faced a choice: stand and fight . . . or diminish and burrow into the earth, like so many others of our kin had done across the world. Morgaine was weak minded and swayed by her affection for the mortals who came to worship her. She did not have the stomach for war. So we planted the Dwirra Tree and nourished it with magic older than the race of men, and we built a haven on the outside of the world.”
“The tree . . . it was like nothing I’d seen before.”