The Dark Throne (49 page)

“Perhaps there’s some sort of connection,” I mused. “Something either conjured by Malravenar or caused by the poison spreading from the Gate.”

“Regardless of its origins, it has been a plague on our people.”

“At least the Courts have survived,” I said, thinking of the
ulfdrengr.

“Some would say we are only echoes of what we once were,” replied Moira, “but it seems as though the fading of our people has been arrested by you and the High Queen. The power gained by the High Queen has overflowed into the rest of us. We’ve all felt it.”

“Is that why you want to be a member of the
vyldgard
?” I asked. It had become a private game for me to try to discern the motivation of each warrior to join the Wild Court.

“I want to feel alive,” said Moira simply. “I want to go on adventures and crack the bones of life and suck the marrow out.” She grinned. “And great adventures are never found in the well-lit rooms of elegant castles.”

“Well,” I said, thinking of the great briar hedge surrounding Brightvale, “at least not in elegant castles that haven’t been bespelled for some reason.”

“Quite right,” said Moira with the easy good nature of the Seelie, but her eyes flashed with the Fae spark even as she smiled. “What else shall we discuss?”

I turned the topic of conversation to archery, which Moira began to dissect with great enthusiasm. But for the rest of that day, I couldn’t stop thinking about Molly’s mother, a young woman who’d been spirited into the Fae world not to bear an ancient weapon of power, but to bear a child. The idea filled me with both sadness and an anger that I added to the flame flickering in my chest.

On the eighth day of the journey, a different sort of anxiety began to hook its claws into my mind. Every day I scanned the horizon for some inkling that the earth was changing, buckling into great mountains in the distance; and every day the ground remained flat save for some small hills like those we’d seen back by the Queen’s camp. Each day seemed to stretch longer than the last. I couldn’t find any satisfaction in the long hours we traveled, because the horizon remained stubbornly flat; I took no comfort in the fleet speed of our
faehal
, because it felt as though we remained in place, the ground still gray and dusty and lifeless. We began to ration our water carefully, and though the Fae steeds were hardy as well as fast, they still needed some sustenance. Nehalim finished the last of the oat-and-grain bricks I’d packed. The Valkyries’ winged steeds ate more than their earthbound counterparts, and to conserve energy the Valkyrie still flew, but soared higher in search of thermal winds that allowed them to coast with wings spread wide. Even Kianryk accepted some
kajuk
from Luca, though he wrinkled his nose at the dried meat. The warriors of the vanguard who had been given to song remained quiet for most of the day as we pressed on with grim determination. I noted in the back of my mind that I’d definitely begun to smell as though I’d been traveling for a week, but we all stank of sweat and dust, even the beautiful Seelie, so I at least took a bit of ironic comfort in that. We sent our Walker every night to report to the
vyldretning
, and he returned every night with the news that the western and southern vanguards had met no success in finding anything but flat barren lands, much less Dark creatures or the Seer.

I stood my watches with grim focus; the rotation was an even one, so Moira remained the roving sentry assigned while I was at the northern post. I wondered if the western and southern vanguards still trekked across arid land as we did, or if they’d found a sweet spring or rushing river of clear cold water. Though the air became colder as we pressed on—a small comfort that we weren’t traveling the same stretch of gray dusty land every day—we found no water, and I began to reserve what I had left for Nehalim. I rode with my scarf pulled up over my face, but dust still coated my mouth and throat. Luca gave me a few pieces of a pungent, lemony plant that he explained helped ease thirst; following his instruction, I tucked the strong-tasting, sour leaves into my cheek, my mouth flooding with saliva. It helped for a few hours, and then the plant lost its taste and my mouth became dry and dusty again.

I stopped counting the days; I measured my time by looking forward to the next mouthful of water I allowed myself at noon and in the evening. We all looked drawn and dry, our eyes red from the dust and our lips cracked, the strong Sidhe showing that they were flesh and blood just as much as I was. How the
faehal
pressed on with such speed, I didn’t know; perhaps it was desperation, knowing that we didn’t have enough supplies to go back, so the only salvation lay in the wild lands ahead. The festive joy of the vanguard compressed into hard determination.

“There’s no way I’m going to die of thirst without getting to kill any Dark abominations,” Moira said in a grim, gravelly voice as we pulled ourselves up onto our mounts for another long day. The Valkyrie now took shifts in the air to conserve their mounts’ flagging strength. I wished, not for the first time, that the Sword or Gwyneth’s pendant functioned as a water divining rod—I’d even asked the Caedbranr a few times, my hope fading with each day as it remained silent. I supposed that this was one of those challenges that I had to solve on my own, without the intervention of the ancient power that slept in the Sword. To my relief, no one had asked me why I couldn’t find them water, or split the earth open to find hidden springs. I don’t think I could have borne the task of telling them that I was just as helpless as they were, and just as thirsty…though after a while, I learned that sharp, bright thirst dulled to an ache. My body hurt, and even strong Nehalim showed signs of the hardship, displaying little of his usual high spirits. He still pushed the pace of the other mounts, acting as a leader within the ranks of the
faehal
, but he did so with a joyless determination that mirrored our own.

I began to think about what would happen if we were attacked. We could still fight—all of us would fight to the death, certainly; but in a few short weeks we’d been transformed by the barren landscape. Luca blamed himself, which I expected, but I still tried to make him see that the fault didn’t rest entirely on his shoulders.

“You can’t prepare for every possibility,” I pointed out in a raspy voice. “We brought more water than the other vanguards, but we expected the Deadlands to break before this.”

“Expectation and reality are two different things,” he said, his hand resting on Kianryk’s head. The wolf seemed to be faring the best out of all the warriors and beasts of the vanguards, and Luca didn’t look as parched as most of us. The cold was beginning to help, tricking our bodies into thinking that we didn’t need as much water.

Finally, we emptied our last waterskin. The Valkyrie flew in pairs now. We still had some rations left, but the saltiness of the
kajuk
and the dryness of the bread only underlined our thirst. As we pressed onward, a strange breeze suddenly sprang up, sweeping down from the north and bringing with it scents that took me long moments to recognize: green, growing things, and earthy wet soil….and the bright frosty scent of ice. I lifted my face into the wind, pulling down my scarf, and Nehalim’s ears swiveled forward in sudden interest. He tossed his head in a rare display of energy. I blinked, feeling as though I was emerging from a dream. I strained my eyes, and in the mist on the horizon I suddenly made out hills. Not the rolling hills of a gray and barren plain, but jagged hills that foreshadowed mountains. I grabbed Luca’s shoulder in sudden joy, and he grinned at me, our throats too painfully dry for words.

We pressed on through the afternoon, the promise of the mountains in the misty distance and the tantalizing scent of water on the wind. Just before sunset, the pair of Valkyrie in the air flew ahead to scout. They were gone for so long that another pair of tired
faehal
labored into the sky, and Luca watched the horizon intently. That pair, too, disappeared, but after about an hour we made out a pair of returning Valkyrie. I frowned, a prickle of unease standing up the hairs on the back of my neck. Luca signaled for all to be alert, and some drew their blades; as they neared us, the Valkyrie were yelling something rather than signaling. Their mounts gleamed strangely in the light of the setting sun. And then as they landed in a flurry of limbs and wings, I realized that the
faehal
were soaking wet, snorting, eyes gleaming and bright. Hope surged in my chest.

“A mountain river!” yelled one of the Valkyrie, soaking wet herself. She pulled a soaked and bulging skin of water from her
faehal
’s back, her partner doing the same. They’d carried back as much water as their mounts could handle. Luca held up a hand and the vanguard halted, those behind us not realizing the magnitude of the Valkyrie’s discovery until they began passing the full flasks of water around the company. I spilled water into the shallow bowl from which Nehalim drank, refilling it for him several times and grinning at his little sounds of enjoyment, not caring that I split my lip, a bit of blood seeping from the dry, cracked skin. The second pair of Valkyrie returned, soaking wet as well and bearing their own full flasks. We watered our mounts and Luca gave almost a full water skin to Kianryk, who panted in pleasure, tongue hanging over his gleaming white teeth. After Nehalim’s thirst was sated, I made sure there was enough water to go around—and there was, thanks to the second pair of Valkyrie. I sat on the ground and drank the cold water until my head hurt from its iciness. It was the sweetest water I’d ever tasted, and I felt as though I’d never have enough. I even poured a little onto the top of my head, shivering as it ran in quick rivulets down the back of my neck and over my temples.

The Valkyrie gave the details of the river’s location to Luca and Robin, and the rest of the winged contingent leapt into the air with new energy.

“We’ll secure the river for you!” Niamh yelled to Luca with a salute, following the rest of her warriors as they joyously sped ahead.

We were all so relieved and sated that Luca merely grinned and mounted his
faehal
again. Kianryk bounded ahead of us as we cantered toward the distant promise of the mountains. As we drew closer to the river, the freshness of the wind intensified. I licked the coppery blood from my split lip and grinned anyway, imagining the pleasure of washing my face…or plunging my whole body into the icy river, just as the Valkyrie had done. The grayness of the ground began to turn a deeper, richer hue, no longer dust but rocky soil.

Someone in the vanguard, a woman with a bright strong voice, struck up a song, a rollicking melody about the perils of traveling with wolves. I suspected she made it up on the spot, but in any case, it had us all grinning like fools, even Luca. Nehalim shook his head and pranced a bit in time to the song; I laughed, the sound foreign to my own ears but sweet as a bell. Then I felt strangely guilty for my exuberance. We didn’t know if my brother and his teammates were safe, or even still alive. What right did I have to be happy when they could be starving or injured, stranded in a strange world? Luca drew his mount up beside me and peered intently at my suddenly pensive face.

“Would your brother want you to scowl at everyone and take no joy in life?” He raised one eyebrow, the slight curls of his hair gleaming in the light of the setting sun. Over the weeks of our journey, he had stopped shaving, and his scruffy, white gold beard gave him an even more roguish look. I hadn’t really ever been attracted to men with goatees or mustaches, but there was a difference to Luca’s rugged handsomeness—there was no affectation there. His choice not to shave had little to do with vanity and everything to do with a realistic practicality; it reminded me of the pictures I’d seen of Liam and his teammates with bristling, wild beards during their deployments. I smiled a little.

“I’m seeing my brother everywhere I look,” I said.

“It would be natural. You will see him soon, so you are thinking about him.”

“In our military—the group of warriors that protects our nation—men have to shave every day,” I continued. “They can have mustaches, but not beards.”

“What is a
mustache
?” Luca tilted his head in curiosity.

I chuckled at his mispronunciation. “It’s when you shave everything but your upper lip.” I laid my forefinger across my own upper lip in demonstration, grinning at his nonplussed look.

“That sounds impractical,” he told me matter-of-factly. “Why go to the trouble of shaving all except one part?”

“Valid point. Most men look pretty ridiculous with mustaches. Some of them grow one as a joke or only while they’re away on deployment. Because I think that most women agree with you.” I grinned. “Anyway, I noticed that you have a bit of a beard right now, and it reminded me of Liam because on his deployments they can grow beards. In the part of the world where they work most of the time, beards signify that you’re a man. Being clean-shaven makes it obvious that you’re a foreigner, or they could also think of you as a boy rather than an adult.”

Luca made a contemplative sound, gazing at the hills in the distance in thought. Then he turned back to me. “Do the men of your world carve other designs in their beards for vanity’s sake?”

I raised an eyebrow, thinking. “Well, I guess you could call a goatee a design.” I explained the style of a goatee, unable to hide my amusement at Luca’s indignant reaction. “Oh, and then there are handlebar mustaches.” I described the reinvigorated art of waxing one’s mustache into fanciful curlicues. “In some cities there are bars that have contests for the best mustache. Most of the time ‘the best’ means ‘the most ridiculous.’ Oh. Bar….um, a tavern? Someplace with beer and liquor.”

“Ah. A mead-hall,” Luca agreed gravely.

“Yeah. Mead-hall,” I said, feeling not for the first time that I had traveled back in time to the days of knights and castles. Hell, we’d fought a dragon, and we wore armor, so if the shoe fits…I smiled.

“Your mortal men seem a bit fanciful,” said Luca. Kianryk appeared, streaking up from the back of the column and bounding into the distance. “If a man must braid his hair or his beard for battle, then it is to please the gods and water the ground with the blood of the enemy.”