Chapter Thirty-Two
My second trip through the portal is nothing like the first, for I do not throw myself headlong but rather step through cautiously.
I pass through a shimmering film of light, then turn and see it harden into glass, a great round pane held in a silver frame.
It is a much faster and more pleasant experience than telepestry, and I cannot help but wonder how the magic of it works.
It seems to be another of the secrets Lachlan has hinted at—the powers fae wield that they do not share with us mortals.
I end up not in the Wenderwood, but in the faerie queen’s palace, in the chamber where Conrad and I escaped the night of the revel.
The portal room is deserted, the empty frames in their alcoves the only witnesses to my arrival.
I suppose If I’d not come through at the last minute before, I would never have got lost in those horrid trees, hunted by Morgaine’s spider-wolves.
I would have arrived here, as the portal intended.
The glass shimmers behind me. Nearly opaque enough to be a mirror, it reflects my pale, startled face back to me, and I see how bedraggled I am, with tears and blood and mud on my dress and arms. I look as if I crawled off a battlefield.
The same warping, impossible hallways wait for me, and I follow blindly, my hand trailing along the left wall so that I do not end up going in circles.
Every door I find, I open; all the rooms are deserted, though cluttered with the most absurd collections.
Pianofortes and suits of armor, looms of gold and beds of silk, indoor gardens, statues of Greek gods, fountains, piles of exquisite clothing, empty birdcages, burning braziers, crystal jewelry; none of it organized, all of it tarnished and faded.
Stopping short when I reach a mirrored dressing room, I step in and find the first thing I recognize here—the gray silk gown with the skirt layered in gauze petals.
Conrad must have brought it back after the revel.
Hurriedly I wrench off my torn, bloody dress and put on the gown, then pull white gloves from a drawer and tug those over my sore wrists, all the way up to my elbows.
At least I don’t look as though I’d been brawling behind a pub.
As I finish with a pearl-and-crystal comb to hold up my hair, I glance in the mirrors and think I might just look like a girl capable of bargaining with a faerie queen.
The only thing I cannot find are shoes. I leave my filthy boots behind and continue in bare feet.
Hurrying onward, I make out voices echoing ahead, stretched and warped as if heard through a tunnel. I walk more quickly, starting to sweat, my instinct for self-preservation pulling at me like a frightened rider trying to rein in a galloping horse.
What are you doing, you stupid girl? Don’t you know what will happen to you? Go back. Go back now!
But I cannot go back. If I did, Lachlan’s ultimatum would catch up to me. My time runs out tonight, no matter what I do. So perhaps it is this which gives me the courage to go onward—I have nothing left to lose, but something which I might still save.
The hard wooden floor of the palace begins to squelch under my feet, turning into a path of moss and damp soil.
Along the wall sprout ferns, and green vines heavy with purple, bell-shaped flowers wend up the walls and crisscross the ceiling.
I brush my hands through them, and they tinkle like chimes and faintly glow at my touch, then fade when I’ve walked on.
The wall begins to break apart from one solid sheet of wood to individual trees, grown so close together I can barely see between them. Are they connected to the Dwirra?
No, that’s not why I’m here. Not anymore.
No more passages branch away now; this tree-lined corridor winds round and round with single-minded purpose, sweeping me away to some preordained destination.
It seems I am walking in a great spiral like an old Celtic spellknot, the sort I found carved onto the ancient memorial stone where I first taught Sylvie how to Weave.
Then, abruptly, I turn a corner and there they are—Conrad, Morgaine, and hundreds of fae.
I pull back sharply, catching my breath, my heart nearly bursting out of my chest. I am tucked behind a wide trunk. Another of equal size stands across from it, their branches forming an ancient doorway.
Peering around more cautiously, I see them: a crowd gathered, facing the throne at the back of the room.
Rows of trees form columns down the sides of the hall, and their branches rise into a magnificently vaulted ceiling, the space between them filled with clusters of glowing Dwirra fruits, but unlike the soft pastel lamps I’d seen elsewhere in the World Below, these shine violently red, bathing the room and all in it in a bloody glow.
The throne upon which the faerie queen sits is high above the crowd, at the top of a wide wooden staircase blanketed in mosses and ferns and small white flowers.
The seat itself is white wood grown organically out of the tangle of moss-covered roots which undulate around the throne.
The back of the seat shoots upward and then branches wide, limbs heavy with leaves and red lamp-fruits.
Scraggly beards of moss and ropes of bellflower vines hang from them, forming a green curtain across the back wall.
Morgaine sits imperiously there, her face stone, her back rigid.
On her head sits her high, jagged crown, and her red dress shimmers like scales, hugging her form and pooling at her feet.
She looks down at Conrad, who is kneeling halfway up the stairs, his head bowed, dressed in a dark fae suit.
The crimson light of the fruits shines on his black hair.
“I will ask you only once more, Gatekeeper,” Morgaine is saying, her voice reverberating through the great chamber, “how came you by this information?”
“My answer remains the same,” Conrad replies, his voice a murmur I can barely make out. “I saw another of his fae on the outskirts. He boasted to me of his master’s plans.”
“And from this one foolish servant you were able to discern that the Briar King is on the move?”
“I know that he is here, and that this time, he has a plan.”
“What plan is that?”
“He wants a branch from the Dwirra Tree. Though I cannot fathom why—”
“A branch from the Dwirra?” Morgaine rises to her feet, so suddenly that the fae in the front rows draw back.
Conrad nods.
Morgaine hisses something in the fae tongue, then descends the stairs and seizes Conrad by his throat. She lifts him with preternatural strength, until he stands on his toes. My hand clenches; I half step through the doorway, still unnoticed.
“Where is she?” Morgaine asks.
Conrad doesn’t struggle, but I see his frame stiffen. “Who—”
“The witch, boy, the too-clever girl with your heart on a string?”
I shrink back, pressing myself against the tree.
“Did you think me a fool, Connie? Did you think for even a moment that your little charade at my revel could convince me? My mistake was in believing you would discover the truth of her and act accordingly. Not that you would dare to hide her from me!”
“Rose has nothing to do with—”
“I knew what she was the moment I laid eyes on her: she was a trap meant for you, and I see now that you know it, that you fell for it, and that still you’ll try to defend her.”
Conrad pulls away; I catch at last a glimpse of his face, just enough to see how pale he is, and yet his eyes are defiant. “She’s long gone now, Morgaine. You’ll never catch her.”
Morgaine strikes him, fast as a lashing snake. Her nails open a deep cut in his cheek.
“Bring me my sword!” she calls out, and a fae bursts forward with a blade in his hand, offering it up to her.
Morgaine looks down at Conrad without an ounce of compassion. “For your crimes, Gatekeeper, I demand an ear. You choose. Right or left.”
Conrad blanches. “I—”
“The left ear it is!” Morgaine announces.
Two faeries seize Conrad and shove him to the floor. The queen raises her sword.
“Stop!” I cry. “I’m here! Fates damn you, I am here!”
They all turn: fae and queen and mortal man, to stare at me, a thousand beetle eyes and Conrad’s dismayed expression.
“Rose—” he begins, but he is cut short as the queen sweeps by him.
The fae part, forming a corridor that leads to me.
I feel as small as a sparrow in that grand, ancient doorway, facing down the advancing queen of the immortals, but I keep my chin high and do my level best not to pass out from sheer terror.
My heart throbs, as if Lachlan senses my treachery and does not like it, not one bit.
She reaches me faster than I could have anticipated, crossing the hall more quickly than any human could. I brace for her touch, expecting some curse or her silver sword in my belly. But she only stops before me and looms.
“It’s not his fault,” I say. “I tricked him, but still he came to you to warn you. Don’t you see? He would not betray you!”
She only watches me, her green eyes nearly black, sharp as a hawk’s. I look around her, to Conrad standing on the stairs, one hand half extended, as if he’s afraid of moving beyond that lest he inspire some savage reaction in the queen.
“Your brother sent me to take a branch from the Dwirra to restore his strength.”
“To restore his strength,” she echoes hollowly.
I nod. “But you see, I have not brought him so much as a twig. The moment Conrad learned my true intentions, he imprisoned me in his manor. He stood by his duty to you, and the only one here who deserves blame is me. I am just what you say I am: a liar, a trap, a tool, only I did not know the extent of it until recently. But all the fault is my own, not Conrad’s. Please—”
I cut short with a gasp of pain.
Morgaine’s sword point finds my shoulder; its sharp edge presses into my collarbone, as her eyes flutter briefly closed before opening again.
“So that’s the way of it, then.” She looks at me differently, not with anger, nor with pity.
Only . . . blankness, as if I am of no consequence at all.
“You foolish child,” she murmurs. “Did you know what the cost would be, when you struck your bargain with the King of Exiles?”
I press my hand to my heart.
“How long do you have?” she asks.
“Until midnight,” I whisper.
“What?” Conrad’s eyes snap to me. “What are you talking about?”
Morgaine shakes her head. Slowly, she lowers the sword, resting its point between her feet. “You poor witless na?f.” She turns to two faerie guards. “Lock her away, and let her own mistake do the rest.”
“What are you doing?” Conrad cries. “What will you—?”
“Nothing,” she says, turning and giving him a hard look. “I need do nothing at all. For in a few hours, she’ll be no threat to us anymore. She has sold her heart to the Briar King, and by midnight, she will be dead.”
He stares from her to me, his eyes wild with confusion and horror.
“You should be glad, Connie,” Morgaine says, her voice flat. “By coming here, the treacherous little witch has touched my merciful side. You may keep your ear, Gatekeeper. This time.”
I close my eyes, feeling a tear drop to my cheek.
I’d thought I could take any risk for the sake of magic—for the chance to live free of the fear my aunt beat into me.
All I ever wanted was to be free and unafraid.
I knew. I knew what I was risking, and I had thought myself strong enough to beat the odds.
But what I hadn’t known was that there might be one thing—one thing—I would find more precious to me than magic.
One thing I would not be able to sacrifice.
I look up and meet Conrad’s gaze for just a moment, and then the faerie guards pull me away.