An Enchantment of Ravens(36)
He examined my face carefully. Part of his shirt had come loose from his trousers, and I bit back the urge to snap at him to tuck it back in.
“You are not prone to flights of fancy,” he said. At least he knew that much about me. “Fair folk can deepen a mortal’s sleep, if we wish, to move about unnoticed nearby. It is common for mortals to interpret such visits as dreams. But that would mean—”
“She’s already found us,” I finished slowly, apprehension weighing down the words.
In one clean arc he swept his sword through a stand of mushrooms, sending their caps flying. Then he stood with his back turned, leaning on the hilt, struggling not to project his defeat. Now I understood why Hemlock’s actions exacted such a personal toll. He was already insecure about his suitability as prince, and the ease with which she tracked him through his own domain was yet another mark against him.
But I had witnessed Rook’s power firsthand, and couldn’t believe it was as simple as that.
“She tried to tell you something,” I said, dredging up the details, frustrated that I could recall so little of use. “I think she was delivering a warning. She said it’s only you now, and that she no longer answers to the horn of winter. Do either of those mean anything to you?”
“No, but there’s an ill sound to both.” He sheathed his sword. “Isobel, I . . .” The pause spun out into an agonizing silence. When he resumed, I could tell every admission cost him. “I was not lying, of course, when I told you I haven’t yet fully recovered. I relied upon losing the Wild Hunt for several days at least. If we are attacked on the return journey—when we’re attacked—I fear I may not be able to protect you.”
I bit my lip and looked down. The heat between us had dissolved, a smoldering fire reduced to soggy ashes. “There must be another option.”
“Revisiting the summerlands would be futile, if not perilous. The winterlands are out of the question, as is”—he hesitated—“my own court, given recent events. But Hemlock wouldn’t dare accost us if we went straight to the spring court. We could stay several nights, and return to Whimsy along a safer route.”
No human had ever visited a fairy court and lived. Or at least, none had ever done so and remained human. I was a master of the Craft, escorted by a prince, but I had to wonder whether I truly was a special case, or if every mortal deluded themselves into thinking they were an exception to the rule.
I took a deep, shaky breath. “I do have many patrons in the spring court.”
Rook bowed his head in agreement. “If anything were to happen to me, Gadfly would honor your desire to return home. Of this I am certain.”
“And once I’m back in Whimsy . . .”
“We shall never see each other again,” he said, “for one reason or another.”
A pain that had nothing to do with anything physical twisted in my chest. What would happen to Rook after we parted? I imagined him returning to the autumn court, walking down a long, dim hall, and taking a seat on a throne with a thousand eyes upon him—all searching for a sign of the human wrongness on his face, the wrongness my portrait had exposed. How long before he tripped, and his people bared their teeth and sprang upon him like wolves on an injured stag? How long would he last against them? I knew he wouldn’t go easily. Or quickly.
But I was powerless to help him. I’d do well to remember that the only fate I had any control over was my own. Cold on the outside, aching on the inside, I nodded.
“Then let us go,” he said, sweeping past me with his face turned away.
A sparkling fall day greeted us beyond the glade. We walked for hours with no sign of the Wild Hunt, encountering nothing more dangerous than the occasional acorn dropping from a tree over our path. Surrounded by the forest’s peaceful beauty, with the sun warming our backs, it was hard to remain pessimistic for long. Even Rook’s steps lightened the farther we traveled without incident.
“What are you smiling about?” I asked, bending over in another futile attempt to wipe the stickiness from the apples we’d found for lunch off my fingers, and watching him suspiciously.
“I just recalled the spring court holds a ball this time of year. If we haven’t missed it, we might be able to attend.”
“Yes, that seems like the perfect thing to do while fleeing for our lives,” I said.
“Then we shall go,” he concluded, pleased.
I snorted, completely unsurprised. “Fair folk are impossible.”
“That’s irregular, coming from a human who can’t even eat a raw hare.”
Hastening along behind him, trying to keep up with his long strides, I decided not to argue about the hare. I was coming to realize that the Craft was so enigmatic to fair folk I might as well have refused to eat meat unless it had been bathed in widow’s tears under a new moon. Realizing that your own magic held more mystery to fair folk than theirs did to you was a peculiar experience. I felt like some sort of wizard with delicate and arcane indispositions, not an artist and a perfectly ordinary person.
We passed a mossy boulder with a squirrel perched atop it. I turned to have a second look, and both the boulder and the squirrel were gone. Scanning the forest around us, I realized that though it was made up of the same types of trees we’d been walking through before, they weren’t the exact same individual trees. I looked forward, and looked back again. Yes—that ash with the overhanging branch had vanished. Straining my eyes, I thought I made it out a quarter of a mile or so behind us in the distance. With all the leaves in between it was difficult to tell for certain.