Chapter 30 #2
Taran jerks his head toward me. “I didn’t… That wasn’t my intention. You’re not—” He pauses, his glowing eyes turning to the ground. “I’m sorry. I’ve put more on you than you deserve, but you’re still carrying it. You shouldn’t feel bad.”
My muscles relax as he rubs his brow, his words slowly sinking in.
With a heavy sigh, he removes his coat and sits next to me.
My entire body locks up as he pulls me against him and wraps his coat around us.
His heat blazes against my back, and his soothing scent of musky pine does nothing to release the tension coiling within me.
What is happening?
“Just go to sleep,” he says.
I don’t dare speak. I close my eyes and try to focus on my breathing, but my nerves twist tighter with every exhale as his warmth flows through me. My exhaustion eventually overtakes me, and I drift away to the sound of his racing heart.
* * *
Taran wakes me just before dawn. He’s gentle about it, rustling my shoulder with his fingers.
With his warmth blanketing me, it’s difficult to pull away, and his hand lingers on my arm until I finally do.
We have a quick, silent breakfast and set off right as the sun rises.
He seems to have taken my outburst to heart, as he doesn’t force as arduous a pace, allowing me more opportunity to appreciate the sights.
The landscape remains similar to Landore’s.
The hills have turned rockier, but they’re mostly rolling and green, with patches of trees here and there.
But by rolling… I mean, actually rolling.
As if the grass is breathing. There’s a subtle movement to it, too rhythmic—like a pulse—to be from the wind.
The idea of capturing it with paint seems depressingly impossible; my best efforts would result in something as boring and lifeless as home.
After a brief stop hiding behind a tree on our way downhill, Taran points to a river cutting through the lowlands ahead, its deep blue waters glimmering in the sunlight. I’d guess it’s at least fifty yards across.
“That’s Anwen’s Tears,” he says. “We’ll need to cross it by midday. Can you swim?”
My chest sinks. “No.” But I can’t let that bring me down—there has to be another solution. “Are there any bridges?”
“They’re out of the way, and too risky.” Taran chews on his thumb, seemingly considering our options. “Come on, we need to keep moving.”
The hillside slopes smoothly down to the river. Trees speckle the terrain, and he moves us from one to another, connecting them with our path to the water’s edge. When we reach it, Taran takes a moment to refill our waterskins, then gestures me over.
He kneels by the water, a smile curling his lips as he glances my way. “Time for you to see some fae magic.”
Taran holds his left hand out, but instead of breaking the surface, the water flows around him. As if he set an invisible boulder in its path. He holds his right hand out, flicking his fingers for me to approach. I carefully lower myself to the riverbank beside him, and he wraps his arm around me.
“You’ll need to stay close, and move with me,” he says.
For some reason, those words feel intimately familiar in a way that sends my heart squirming into my throat. I swallow, then he takes an awkward step forward. I do my best to match him without falling over, and right before our feet enter the water, the current bends around us.
My body tenses with every step, going deeper into the river.
Sunlight filters through the water, reflecting off the silvery scales of fish flitting by.
Our boots sink into the mud, and within a few steps, the river’s surface flows high above Taran’s head, as if we’re standing inside a giant bubble. .
Such a feat is impossible with incanting. If he lets go, I’ll undoubtedly drown just from the force crashing down on me. The harsh grip of that fear keeps my wonderment at bay.
“You need to breathe,” Taran says.
I force out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, then inhale deeply. My chest is so tight I choke on the cold, damp air, but my next inhale releases the tension slightly. I maintain my vise-like grip on his torso.
“Would you like to hear how Anwen’s Tears was named?” he asks, his voice calm.
I try to nod. When that fails, I let out a stammered, “S-s-s-sure.”
Taran gives me a comforting squeeze. “Long ago, when the Land was young and Lyndir still fae, Anwen was a princess of the Evermoor line. Her father, the king, brought her to a great meeting between the leaders of all the realms and their families, and it was there she met Iorweth, the son of Ystyr’s queen. It was love at first sight.”
I glance at Taran’s face, his gaze focused on the waters ahead.
“But they could not be,” he continues. “Aedys and Ystyr refused to unite their realms, each wishing to keep their own power. And Lyndir and Llynos wouldn’t allow such an alliance to form between their rivals.
So Anwen and her love fled in the night, to the frozen north, where they hoped to live out their days in secret. ”
The tension in my body melts away, lulled by Taran’s steady voice, and my breathing calms.
“Unfortunately, her father’s men found them.
They killed Iorweth in his sleep, as he lay in Anwen’s arms. Her grief was so encompassing that the Land’s heart broke for her, cracking the earth across the entire stretch of the north and south.
Anwen’s anguish swallowed her, and the gash in the Land filled with her tears, becoming the mighty river that would forever connect the north and the south. ”
My brow crinkles. “Did that really happen?”
“It must have. Or enough believe it, that it’s become the truth.”
I don’t think truth works that way… “What happened to her father? Did he regret what he’d done?”
“The story doesn’t say. The Evermoor line continued, so he must have had another child.” He nods ahead. “We’ve made it. I’ll hold back the water while you climb the bank.”
There’s about three feet of mud and rock for me to climb, and he steadies me with his arm as I attempt to do so while getting the least amount of muck on my coat as possible.
It squishes between my fingers, cold as ice.
By the time I reach the top, mud covers my hands and boots, but the rest of me remains fairly clean.
Taran, surprisingly, has a more difficult time of it, since he can only use one hand. He slips, and I lunge forward, grabbing him with muddy hands. I yank him onto the grass as the water collapses behind him. My back hits against the ground, and Taran lands on top of me, his face inches from mine.
Our eyes meet for an instant before he scrambles up.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m alright.” I sit myself up, holding back a laugh at the embarrassed flush of his cheeks.
It’s the second time his serious demeanor has dropped, letting a boyish charm peek through that feels so familiar, despite its rarity.
“A bit muddier than I’d like, but no harm done. ” I hold out my hands as evidence.
Taran exhales, then turns back to the river to rinse the mud from his hands. “Clean up quickly so we can go.”
“Yes, we’re far too exposed out here, I know.” I kneel beside him to rinse my hands.
He lets out a sigh that almost sounds like a laugh, then flicks my shoulder as he stands. “Hurry up.”
I bite back a chuckle as I dry my hands on the grass, then follow.
* * *
After what must be a couple bells later, we arrive at a fae village.
Taran calls it Ashbourne and tells me how it was built from the remains of an older city, Greenfair, that was destroyed in a forest fire less than a decade earlier.
While most of the survivors fled to nearby towns, some stayed behind, determined to rebuild.
The result is a fairly unique fae settlement, according to Taran, but I have nothing to compare it to.
Unlike the first forest we traveled through in the faelands, with tall, thick trees whose branches blocked out the sun, those here are mostly young.
The sunlight easily permeates their leaves, lighting up a forest floor filled with tall grasses and ferns.
Scattered among the trees stand somewhere between ten and twenty huts of various sizes made of mismatched pieces of wood.
Many are scorched and blackened, in sharp contrast to the pale tones of the trees that somehow bleed a depth of color.
I have so many questions, but Taran’s made it very clear this is not the time. So it’s up to me to pay attention and find the answers myself.
With both our hoods up, he leads me around the outskirts of the village toward one of the larger huts. A couple fae glance over as we pass, pausing curiously.
“Maybe we should act less suspicious?” I whisper.
His jaw tightens, then he snatches my hand and pulls me along, tension radiating from his body. When we arrive at the door, he bangs on it impatiently.
Once it opens, Taran presses me inside the decently sized room—deer and antler motifs decorate the wooden walls, while fur rugs cover the dirt floor. The man before us sputters in protest as he steps back, then recovers with a rushed bow.
“Your Highness,” he says, his voice pitching up as he straightens his shirt. “What are you doing here?”
While he looks to be a man in his early forties, with long blond hair he wears braided down his back, he could be three hundred for all I know. Like Taran and Emlyn, his angular face is completely smooth. Do fae men not grow facial hair?
Taran covers a nearby window with an animal pelt that hangs across it. “Calm yourself, Merfyn. Tell me what you’ve heard.”
“Of course.” Merfyn tugs at his shirt again. “Messengers arrived two days ago, announcing the king was dead, and Queen Esyllt returned. They said we no longer need to fear attacks from Ystyr—that the prince will seal an alliance with their princess through marriage.”
“What?” I ask sharply. Taran never said anything about being engaged.
Merfyn glances my way, as if noticing me for the first time. My chest tightens as Taran shoots me a glare, then steps between us, towering over Merfyn.
“An alliance with Ystyr?” he asks.
“Y-yes,” Merfyn says, rubbing his hand along his pants. “I was invited to the wedding, seven days hence.” He looks hesitant. “Were you unaware?”
He’s awfully nervous. But after Taran’s reaction to my last interruption, it might be best to wait until after we leave to say anything.
Taran sighs, then rubs his brow. “What are you doing, Mother?”
Merfyn subtly tilts to the side, peeking around Taran, his gaze pressing uncomfortably against me. My hand twitches toward my pocket, but my button’s no longer there. I bite my lip.
“I’m not marrying anyone,” Taran says firmly, drawing Merfyn’s attention. “The prince they spoke of isn’t me. My mother’s attempting to take my throne, and it would appear Ystyr’s been helping her.”
“I see.” Merfyn’s face tightens.
“I need to stop her. She would trade war with Ystyr for one with the mortals. Can I count on your support?”
Merfyn cocks his head, frowning. “What do you need?”
Taran puts his hand on Merfyn’s shoulder. “Meet me in White Spring in four days. I’ll have gathered those I trust, and we’ll discuss the plan then.”
Merfyn’s eyes flick briefly in my direction, then he nods. “I’ll be there.”
Taran reaches for the door, but Merfyn stops him, eyeing me as he says something in the Tongue.
My stomach sinks. I thought they only spoke that when talking to the Land. Does this mean he saw through my glamour? But it shouldn’t matter. Taran trusts this man, so I should, too.
But I don’t. Something’s… off… about him. I should bring it up with Taran as soon as possible. He might be too close to see it.
Taran’s jaw clenches before he responds, and Merfyn nods. He gives a slight bow as he steps back, then Taran guides me out the door.