In Seven Days' Time
ASH
I start for Azrael, who is grinning like the dragon he is, readying myself to zap him from head to dick, but Klyesque places a hand on my shoulder. “Wait,” she says quietly. “Just give it a moment.”
“Why the fuck would I want to, damn it? That Woodlan bitch-”
“Remember what she said at the castle?” Klysesque suddenly asks me and I nod. “About the Queen’s return? About her magic?”
“Yes, Klyesque, what is your point? If you think I should be taking counsel from that damned old witch and her riddles then-”
“No! I certainly don’t. But think you for a moment whether they are riddles or whether they are truths. Stranger things have happened.”
“No, stranger things have not. Witches are the bane of all that is reliable in the realms. She spoke of madness and lies. Fae Tales… Daydreams… Prophecies and broken curses and…” I temper my words, watching Azrael cackle like a mad bird, having listened in on our private conference. Damned dragon ears.
Broken curses…
Damn.
Klyesque nods, then completes my thought with, “...curses like her own. Her curse, which has kept her penned in the Mortal Realm for many a turn. But now… she is back. She walked through the gate and into Faery. Think about it for a moment. Certainly ‘tis true, the Hidden Queen died at Hadimere’s hand. In flash of flame and fire. So for it to be told that she has returned, can only mean…”
It can’t be true, can it?
Daphne can’t be her. It’s impossible.
“Clayeira was burned still ripe with child,” I hiss, shaking myself to banish the sudden wind of havoc frolicking about in my head.
“That is the story,” Klyesque whispers. “One that was told for eighteen years.”
“Goddess damn her for keeping her secrets,” I growl.
“Twas the secrets that kept her child safe,” Klyesque comments, her commitment to this new facticity held firm. Still, I shake my head, the tale too audacious to be believed, but Klyesque refuses to be deterred. “Think a little harder Ash. I know you worry for Daphne. But do not forget what the witch said and do not forget that she, as the cursed one, is back in the realms at last. Lies perhaps she can tell, yes. But if she’d had the power to lift the curse on her own, she might have done so years ago.”
She is right. I know she is right.
And Daphne insists that the child she carries is mine.
Closing my eyes I try to envision her giving herself to Hayden. It burns me, just the sight of it. The thought of his perverted hands touching my lady’s flesh pours molten fire into my bloodstream that threatens to have me giddy with rage.
But… I remember how she fought him that first night. She was afraid, she was threatened, yet still, she did not allow him his way.
No. She would not have let him touch her then lie about it.
Suddenly I am certain of the truth that has been right in front of me for the entire time. And the moment I am accepting of it - other things begin to fall into place. Lining themselves up one by one as foretold they would once upon a witch’s fancy.
“Magda. She is the one who left the book,” I say with sudden clarity. “She must have been given it for safekeeping. She must have been watching Daphne for a very long time. The witch seeks to go home. To open the gates to the Realm of the Lost that were closed upon Clayeira’s death. The gates to the Land of Hidden Fae.”
She will seek to take my peasant from me.
And I… I cannot allow it.
DAPHNE
The voice behind me arouses something inside of me, prickling my senses so that my hair stands on end. Bubbles of nostalgia fizz in my chest and Celeste’s eyes sparkle with satisfaction, the cross of her legs switching as I spin on my heel and gaze upon a memory from long ago.
From a time of Isabel and stories.
A time of river games and berry picking.
To the time I was lost in the woods, frightened and alone.
And now, to the past I was given at the Fountain of Truth.
My mother’s dearest confidante.
“It’s you,” I whisper, my heart beating to match the muted drums of the war dance taking place beyond the tent.
“It is me,” she says softly, her eyes tearing, her leaves swirling. “And it is you. Finally my dear. We are home.” Her old, battered arms spread wide, her dirty old robes falling low about her sleeves as she reaches for me. “Och - you are the splitting image of your mother girl!”
“I remember you,” I whisper, falling into her arms the way I did once as a child, but only for a light embrace. She smells of wind and dry leaves. Molded bark and mildew. “You lived in the trees. You walked me home as a child. It is you, isn't it?” I ask, tears gathering. Blinking them away, I stand a step or two back, my gaze marveling over the fondness in her features.
“I have guarded you for years. Watched you from afar as once I promised your mother. Yes. It was me. And now,” she pauses, moisture glinting in the heart of her too sharp gaze, “you have called me home.” She loses her smile, eyes darkening. “We have much work to do. Your prince… he-”
“My prince? You mean, Ash?”
The witch nods, her chin growing stubborn as she hazards a glare toward the closed tent flap and what lay beyond. “He is a stubborn fool and he will not release you to me,” she snarls, her gaze returning to me with a hint of maternal disappointment in their depths, “For you have already consummated that which was vowed long ago and he thinks you his bloody property.”
“I am no one’s property,” I whisper with a lot less conviction than I should.
“Precisely, dear one. If anyone belongs to anything he belongs to you!” She quips and I can’t help but smile. Thunder roars above and the witch tenses. “Already he plots to keep you from your birthright.” She reaches for my hands. “Promise me child,” she whispers with an odd sort of silent hiss, “Promise you’ll not remain locked by him. That you will journey toward the Lands of Lost. That you will free your folk as they have been waiting , wandering. Promise me.”
I squeeze her hands, not rightly certain of what she speaks. “I will not let him lock me away.” That much I could vow. That much I had already promised myself. “No matter what.”
She tilts her head at me, her magical irises flashing with a sparkle of green the color of pine needles. She leans close and speaks so low it is almost as if her words are in my head and not truly of sound at all, “The book must stay hidden from all that are not you. I will meet you beyond the Missing Meadow in seven days' time.”
Then, in a swirl of leaves and wind, she disappears.