17
IVA FITZROY
Spring has decided to come with a joyous suddenness. I wake to the chatter of birds and the whole day is spent riding through snow that shrinks in on itself. The sun beats down with such heat that I let my hood fall and let the light wash over my face.
“Do you know what the fae lands are like?” I ask Rhurc who rides beside me.
“Shadows, is my guess,” he says grimly, not realizing, I think, why I ask. “The fae look tangible enough when you aren’t fighting them. They’ve faces like humans and those strange fox ears that end in points. Some have antlers, some hooves, some tails. There are even some with wings pretty as a dragonfly’s or an eagle’s. But the moment they attack you they change. They’re shadows and fire then. Great raging, elongated things that tower and shift and fight with the strength and fury of the fires of hell. So, I would guess that the pretty exterior when they are at peace is a ruse and their true nature shows in the attack. I’ve thought on it a lot and I think their home must be shadows and fires, too.”
“Nonsense,” says Lady Fliad from behind us.
I startle at her words. She’s hardly spoken since we left the inn. Hardly even complained. Her face is drawn and pale as if she has been worked to the bone, but she only rides through the day, just like us, though her hands twist constantly around a pair of gold amulets she wears around her neck on a chain. Even at night, she clings to it, whispering and withdrawn. Perhaps, she feels guilt over what she has done.
“The fae are little different from us except for their long lives, beauty, and magic. They live much as mortals do.”
No one speaks to contradict her but after long moments Rangen says, “Well, there was some mention of a curse. Isn’t that true, Sir Oakensen? There were rumors as we were packing to leave the camp.”
Haldur has just ridden back from scouting forward. He takes that role more often than is required, I think. He looks between us now, as if puzzled by this conversation he’s entered against his will. His stallion nudges Lady Fliad’s mare – she’s back on the mare now that the poor horse’s mouth is healing – and he pulls the stallion away, making him dance a little at the force of the reaction.
“Isn’t it true that the fae said something about a curse when they left the talks?” Rangen asks. “That’s what was being said before we rode out.”
Haldur grunts a reluctant acknowledgment. His eyes meet mine – just for a heartbeat, but they always do that now. Whenever he’s within sight, he looks to me immediately before turning back to what he’s doing. It sends a shock of heat through me every time. I’m so conscious of it that I think I could feel it even if it happened behind my back.
“Maybe the shadows and fire are part of the curse,” Rangen says.
“Then why would they want that to end?” Rhurc asks. “Seems like an advantage to have over your enemy.”
Rangen shrugs and Sir Oakensen clears his throat.
“Open stream ahead. We’ll make camp nearby. Tell the men we’ll take shifts to wash.”
Sounds of approval fill the air. No one has been able to wash in days. Not even at the inn, with what happened there.
“Iva and I will take the last shift,” Lady Fliad says imperiously. “Set our tent up so that we can dry within it, Iva.”
Even she must be excited for the chance to get clean. She’s calling me by name and asking for things rather than expecting them to simply be done. That’s almost friendly by her standards.
I’m happy to be warm for once as I set up the tent and build up the fire.
“Can you start the soup?” Rangen asks me before his shift goes to the river.
Gragor is already back, wet as a fish and laughing for the first time since we left the village. Rhurc shoves him as they enter their tent. They look younger than usual. Almost as young as they actually are.
“Of course,” I say with a smile, busily working to set out food, mind the fire, bring fallen logs over for seats, and ready the wooden dishes. I use a pine bough to sweep the area around the fire to rid it of what snow and debris I can. Just because we’re outside doesn’t mean it can’t feel homey. Will I be allowed to make a home when I go to the fae? Will I live in a house at all or will it be a cavern or a hollow tree?
I try not to feel a pang of fear at the thought of what life will be among another race – a race the soldiers claim is actually made of hellfire and shadow?
I bite my lip, and focus my thoughts elsewhere, missing Hessa. If she were here, I would have the comfort of her dog breath and dog grin. Without her, I’m the only one left to offer anyone comfort and I don’t dare ask them to coddle me when no one is caring for them.
I’m just finishing the soup when the second shift of men returns from the river, shivering loudly, scrubbed red and clean, but smiling with the satisfaction that comes from clean skin and a fresh scent. Haldur is among them. He doesn’t smile, but his frown lines aren’t as deep and when his eyes search for me and find me he seems almost at peace.
I offer him a smile – a deep, calm one, the kind of smile I know he needs right now.
He rubs the back of his neck and looks away, and he, too, looks his age as his cheeks blush brightly and his wet hair gleams in the softening spring sun.
“Iva, attend,” Lady Fliad calls, and I see her there with a length of linen and fresh dresses in her arms. She even has one for me – an act so shockingly generous that I am immediately suspicious.
I hurry to her side.
