A Sliver of Shadow (29 page)

“You okay?”

The brush of his lashes fluttered like a trapped butterfly against my neck and I wondered at it until I felt the damp warmth of tears. “This was … unexpected,” he said with a rueful laugh. “I received that scar nearly two hundred years ago, and yet you bring forth those memories with such a simple gesture.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I wasn’t sure how wise it was to probe, but I knew perfectly well what it was like to have one’s emotions fester.

“It’s a complicated story. One better left to later, I think.” He propped himself up on his elbow, turning me so that we were face to face. “Or at least on the road.”

“You know, I hear that kissing is the way to cure sadness in Faerie,” I said archly. “Are you sad, Prince?”

“I just might be,” he murmured, letting me pull him down, his mouth brushing against mine for a long moment. “And we had better stop, lest you tempt me to waste the rest of the morning.”

I reached around him to find his shirt. “Let’s start with clothes first.” I yawned, draping it over my shoulders. He stretched out with the easy grace of one who is used to casual nudity. His gaze roamed over me, apparently pleased at my state of undress. With a regretful sigh, he rose and exited the tent.

The campfire had burned out during the night and I wandered over to poke at the embers with a stick. “No warm breakfast this morning, I guess.”

“There’s a bit of bread and cheese left in my pack,” he said absently, bending to check the stallion’s hobble. I took the opportunity to check out his ass, flushing at the score marks on the left cheek.

“Guess I got a little enthusiastic.”

He looked up at me with a sly grin. “These are not the sort of scars a man minds bearing, Abby. I’ll wear them with honor.”

I rolled my eyes. “No one else will see them.”

“Maybe not, but they’ll see that.” He gestured at my neck.

I craned my head down, unsure of what he meant until I caught the barest hint of purple just below my collarbone. Hickeys. The dude had given me hickeys. “How old are you?” I scowled, drawing the cloak tighter.

“It’s the sign of a good night,” he told me, the grin growing wider.

Shaking my head, I stalked over to his pile of belongings. “Where are those clothes you were going on about? I’ve got things to do.”

Laughing softly, he procured the promised dress, a lavender confection with a fitted bodice and an ebony skirt. I wriggled into it, gazing hopelessly at the extra ribbons. Coughing his amusement into his hand, the elf swiftly tied the stays. “It suits you,” he mused. “Perhaps it needs a bit extra for the hair, but either way, it’s a vast improvement over muddy jeans.”

“Something tells me the fashion police aren’t going to be bothered with a poor little mortal like me.”

He eyed my necklace carefully, his mouth tightening. “They’ll bother with the Key, for sure. We’ll need to make certain that’s out of the way. Even with the Glamour.”

He thrust on his trousers, belting them up so they slung low over his hips. He finger-combed the tangled mess of his hair, grimacing when he hit a few knots.

“It’s going to take forever to braid those. Maybe I shouldn’t have undone them.” Chagrin blossomed in my cheeks. “Do you have a comb?”

He dug through another saddlebag, pulled out a silver-tined comb and handed it to me with an amused look, sitting cross-legged at my feet. Hesitantly, I ran it through the upper half, trying not to catch the snarls too hard. “I can see why you keep it bound as much as you do.”

A chuckle escaped him and then he paused. Retrieving a dagger from his belt, he held it out to me, hilt forward. “Cut it off,” he said.

I blinked at him. “Cut it …”

“My hair. I want it shorter.”

“I didn’t think the Fae did the haircut thing much.”

“We don’t. Royalty in particular,” he added. “But maybe I’m tired of pretending to be something I’m not.”

I looked at him doubtfully. “Rebel, rebel, your face is a mess.” I gestured at him to turn around. “How short do you want it?”

He shrugged. “It will grow back. Whatever looks good to you.”

“Oookay.” I grabbed a hank, slicing through it carefully. It was a hack job, to be sure, but by the time I was finished, it reached to just above his shoulders, part of it hanging at a slant to frame his chin. “There. It should be a bit more manageable now, I guess.” I rubbed my finger over his jawline, the rough hair prickling my skin. There was a reddish hue to it that didn’t quite match the rest of him. “You know, I didn’t think elves grew beards.”

The tips of his ears pinked slightly. “Most can’t. Has to do with certain bloodlines and the fact that some of us are a bit more refined than others.”

“Is that what you call it? Refined?”

“Something like that.”

I brushed my lips over his, lingering for a teasing moment. “Well, I think it suits you just fine. Your transformation to rogue pirate is complete.”

He tucked the loose strands of hair behind his ears and rewarded me with a rakish leer. After worming into his tunic, he began taking down the camp, carefully binding up the loose hair I’d cut.

“I’ll burn this later, but we need to make up some ground today. My men will be waiting at Eildon Tree. It’s a central location and a good place for us to go over our plans. Plus it’s neutral ground.”

I frowned at him. “You’re talking about the original Eildon Tree? The one from my … father’s poem?”

He paused and then let out a sigh. “I keep forgetting you’re not really one of us. Yes. Eildon Tree is the site of the original CrossRoads. Where Thomas made his decision to go with the Queen. The birthplace of TouchStones,” he added, reciting softly:

“Betide me weal; betide me woe,

That weird shall never daunten me.”

Syne he has kiss’d her rosy lips,

All underneath the Eildon Tree.

I shivered, wondering how deeply my own destiny was tied to this place. My hand found my necklace, rubbing it between nervous fingers. “Were the other Doors opened? When I went through yesterday?”

“No. After you were carried away, it was utter chaos. I damn near had to kill a few of them to let Melanie and Phin through with me, but the Door shut shortly thereafter. She still can’t use her violin to open anything.”

“So what happens if the Queen doesn’t reopen the CrossRoads?
We can’t abandon everyone we left behind. Benjamin—”

“I know. If nothing else, I’ll have you reopen that Door a second time and we’ll lead them home that way.” His hands fisted as he tightened the saddle’s girth about the stallion. “But if it comes to that, Abby, we’re going to have far bigger things to worry about than a mere rescue.”

“War?”

“I don’t know. Gods save me, I just don’t know.”

The horse’s gait was swift and smooth beneath us, hooves thudding into the dirt path. I sat pillion behind Talivar, trying not to embarrass myself too badly. With my skirts bunched up past my knees, I imagined it wasn’t the most romantic thing to look at, but a damned sight easier to throw myself off the beast if it came to it. Plus, as much as Talivar insisted I wouldn’t be a distraction to him, the way he suddenly couldn’t seem to stop touching me indicated otherwise.

Not that it had been anything other than mostly polite, but at times it was as though he were a dying man newly introduced to water. And so his flesh drank me, the constant contact a balm to whatever drought remained within his soul.

I’d decided that if we were actually going to get anywhere today, I had better content myself with being the medieval equivalent of a backseat driver. I draped my hands loosely about his waist.

And what a difference a mostly full belly and a quiet night had made. It was hard to stay too grumpy once the sun came out and burned away the fog. Thick forest melted into soft fields bursting with primroses, dewdrops scattered like diamonds.

I hugged Talivar closer, marveling at it all. “Is it always like this? This sort of wild beauty?”

“In places. Some of it is not quite so lovely. Most of it is dangerous.” We rounded a bend, coming across a small encampment nestled in a grove of young trees. Clusters of fresh-faced children waved to us from atop their wagons, gesturing at us to join them. A long table sat in the center of the camp, covered with food. My mouth watered.

“I think I smell bacon.” I sighed.

His chuckle was without humor. “Take my hand, Abby.”

Confused, I slipped my hand into his. A scrape of something metal against my skin and I realized he’d slipped a ring on my finger. “A little soon to propose, don’t you think?”

“Look again,” he said softly. “But do not react.”

I glanced over my shoulder, stifling a gasp. The children’s smiles had turned pointed and feral, their teeth sharp. They pointed at the table again, but now I could see it was covered with rotting vegetables, moldy bread, and fly-encrusted… something. Beneath the table, what had been flowers was now a pile of bones, stripped clean and broken open, skulls of either mortal or Fae grinning in welcome.

“Jesus,” I whispered. I looked at the field we’d passed through moments ago, shuddering at what was clearly a marshy swamp, cool puddles of stagnant water and dying vegetation.

“They lure in the unwary,” he said. “Those who cannot see through the Glamour are easily trapped.”

“Why do you allow it? Can’t your Queen do something?”

“And what would she do? They have a right to live according to their nature. As long as they are not in the kingdom proper and she doesn’t have to look at them, anyway.”

“Then why are they out here—instead of the Barras? Jimmy said the Queen had banished the Lesser Fae.” I frowned as I said it, an unpleasant thought crossing my
mind. “Or are you telling me the Barras is really some sort of Fae concentration camp?”

“The explanation becomes complicated. Long ago, my people were split into two kingdoms. You might know them as the Seelie and Unseelie Courts?”

“Yeah.” In the old tales, the Seelie Court was supposed to have been made up of the “good” Fae, although I had the distinct impression that “good” really depended on one’s definition. The Unseelie Court was the yang to the Seelie’s Court’s yin, and primarily consisted of the less pleasant denizens of Faerie.

“The short answer is that the Barras is actually the remnants of the Unseelie Court. They’re forbidden to have their own kingdom longer than a day in any one place, so they’re constantly on the move.”

I chewed on my lower lip, Tresa’s cry for sanctuary suddenly making sense. And Talivar had claimed the same once? “And they retain their sovereignty? When did they dissolve as a Court?”

“Yes,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing against the scar on his finger. “And about two hundred years ago.” I bit back the last of my questions, something in his voice indicating that I was treading dangerous ground. That he’d had something to do with it was more than clear, as was the fact that he didn’t want to talk about it.

Fair enough, I supposed. For now. I spared a last look behind me, trying not to shiver at the narrowed eyes following our progress. The longer I stared, the less like children they were, their forms becoming gnarled and stooped, skin saggy. One of them bared her teeth at me. I returned in kind, suddenly tired of the intimidation factor; she did nothing but turn away eventually. Sour grapes that she wouldn’t be dining on my mortal flesh, perhaps.

And then there was that matter about the Key. I said
nothing about the necklace, but something told me that there were plenty of folk willing to take me down at a chance to control the CrossRoads, seal of royalty on my finger or not. Abruptly I switched the subject. “What about the body of the Protectorate?”

“She was taken to the Tree as well. We will investigate as to how she died, but in truth it only proves that Tresa was clearly an imposter.”

“Well, duh,” I said dryly. “She said Maurice has her son, but didn’t get into the specifics.”

“Motive,” he agreed, “but not one we’ll be able to prove unless we find the boy—and she must still answer for her treason. Better to blame Maurice, as he surely has his finger deeper in this pie then we know.”

At that we both went silent, my own thoughts lost in what was coming. The web was becoming increasingly tangled the more I tried to unweave it. The only real question was what we might find in the center.

Eildon Tree was less about an actual tree than it was a central space, I discovered. Not that there wasn’t a tree there, but for some reason I imagined it to be something monstrous, filled with tangible power.

But it wasn’t.

Ancient and gnarled, for certain, and covered in small white blossoms, the Eildon Tree was wrapped in quiet humility, and an ethereal vibration that seemed to emanate from its branches. I could feel it drawing me in, my limbs trembling in response. Talivar glanced down at me, eye filled with a gentle amusement.

Here is where it all began,
my inner voice said, filled with a quiet awe.
Your history starts here.

With my father. My mouth went dry at the thought, almost seeing it before me—the Scottish bard taking solace at
the tree’s roots, the music of his lute so utterly heartfelt as to draw the attention of the Faery Queen herself. What would he be like?

My stomach churned, each new question beating at my brain like a butterfly made of velvet nails. My legs shook as I slid off the horse, heedless of Talivar’s helping hand. The silken blades of grass sprung beneath my naked feet as I staggered over to the tree, my hand already reaching out to touch its smaller branches.

The sound of humming washed over me.
Earthsong,
my mind named it, though I had no recollection of the word. A moment later found me kneeling, my face pressed into the bark of one of the larger trunks of the hawthorn. Abruptly, I plunged into a hazy swirl of visions, as though I stared at a multifaceted gemstone, thousands upon thousands of images superimposed upon themselves in a blur of faces and movements. My emotions turned inward, spiraling from great joy and terrible sorrow, uplifted into a gentle hope for the future, my brain short-circuiting at the myriad possibilities.