The Queen's Choice

Struck by a realization, I sat up and gazed into his face.

“Then you don’t feel whole, either?”

He was silent for a long time, his thoughts unreadable.

“No, I don’t. My father shouldn’t have died. If he loved me so much, he shouldn’t have risked his life by trying to cross the Bloody Road. He should have known I would need him, and taken better care of himself. He should have known that without him, I’d be alone here in the Faerie Realm, singled out as the only person with human blood. But you, Anya, you’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.”

I clung to him and believed his words because I needed to, not caring whether or not they were realistic.

And now I’d become one of those people who, like Zabriel’s father, should have known better. But that insight had arrived too late, leaving me at the age of sixteen trapped outside my home, wingless, broken, and very, very alone.

* * *

I was calm when next I broke through the fog of my misery and came to full wakefulness; perhaps my subconscious mind remembered the pain that movement had caused me earlier. I glanced around the room, still lying on my stomach, again taking in the simple, almost meager furnishings. Hand-knitted throws and pillow covers were the only bursts of color, and the blankets that warmed me were threadbare in places.

It took me a moment to notice the young woman sitting in the rocking chair near the foot of the bed. She looked to be about my age, her dark brown hair tied into a ponytail with a ribbon of navy blue to match her tunic. One leg was tucked up beside her, and she was holding a book, its cover obscured by a paper wrap. I wondered what she was reading—and from whom she was hiding the title.

“What are you going to do with me?” I rasped. I didn’t know how long I’d been slipping in and out of awareness, but the dryness in my throat and mouth suggested I hadn’t had a good drink in days.

My visitor startled and looked up.

“Nothing, unless you have something to suggest?” With a wry smile, she stood from the rocker and approached, nestling her book in the crook of one arm. “How do you feel?”

“Like you’re lying.”

I couldn’t afford to be civil. The human world was a notorious place, and for all I knew, she could be the woman who’d stroked my hair, condescending to offer me comfort after my wings had been taken.

“My father found you when he was hunting,” she patiently explained.

“Is that the story he told you?”

My eyes darted toward the door. It was evening, and faint light drifted through the cracks between it and the frame. This young woman’s father might be waiting for me in the next room with his halberd. I tensed, yearning for the Anlace, for the power I felt when I held it. But my body was so weak I doubted it would have provided me with a viable defense.

She laughed. “It’s not just a story. My father hunts deer and rabbits. For food.” Noting my glare, she sobered. “Sorry. I shouldn’t make fun.”

She was looking at my back, though the blankets and the light fabric of a nightgown hid my skin. The humans must have removed my jerkin and shirt to cleanse my wounds. Where were they now? Where were the Anlace and my satchel?

“I’ll get you some water.” The young woman turned to the bedside table and filled a glass from a pitcher, and I gingerly propped myself up, though water wasn’t the drink I desired. What I needed was Sale. “You must be hungry, too.”

I didn’t have much of an appetite, taut as my nerves were, but I let her think what she wanted. I downed the water, however, which felt like sand as it made its way through my constricted throat.

“May I have a look?” she asked, taking the glass from me. She meant at my back, where my wings had been, and she was hesitant about her question.

“Why? Curious?”

“No. My mother and I have been caring for you since my father dragged you home.”

She was curt, and I lay down again, feeling rebuked. After setting her book on the table, she peeled back my coverlet, lifted the nightgown and removed a bandage moist with blood, pus, and, from the smell of it, alcohol.

“It’s not as bad as it could be,” she announced, not a hint of revulsion in her voice, slightly increasing my confidence in her skills as a healer. “Let me get a new bandage.”

She left the room, but I hoped she would return and light the lamp on the bedside table. The sun was setting and would soon leave me in darkness, something I didn’t want to face, not with my heart and body feeling so unwieldy. I clenched my jaw as apprehension filled me, bubbling toward panic at my circumstances, and I sat up, not wanting to suffer the pain but needing something upon which to fixate. While the hot flare that shot through my body was enough to make me gasp, I was thankful to discover that this time it did not bring me close to tears. My caretakers knew what they were doing. Grasping the blanket, I held it in front of me to cover my breasts, and consciously slowed my breathing.

The moments ticked past, and I glanced at the bedside table and the book with the paper wrapping. I picked it up, lifted the paper cover and glanced at the title: Crime and Punishment in the Warckum Territory. Not what I’d been expecting, and probably “borrowed” from the man of the house. For some reason, humans tended to view women as less capable than men, while Nature—and by extension Fae—made few such distinctions. Hearing the creak of the floorboards as someone approached the room, I replaced the cover and returned the book to its former position.

When the young woman entered with a basket of medical supplies, she was not alone. A girl, perhaps eight or nine years old, carried an armful of wood, which she stacked next to the hearth. She wore a constrictive dress that was not conducive to such work, reaffirming my previous thoughts on human conventions.

“My name is Shea,” the older of the two girls said to me. Their matching brown hair and brown eyes left no doubt they were sisters. “And this little helper is Marissa.”

Marissa smiled at me as she stirred the flames back to life...flames that Davic could have summoned to his palm in an instant, that would have glowed before his sharp features; added hints of gold to the silvery color of his eyes; created a halo around his head of black hair. Hair through which I loved to run my fingers. Hair that I might never touch again.

“If you’re feeling well enough,” Shea resumed, oblivious to the deep sense of loss that was coursing through me, “we can wrap these bandages around your chest and you can join us for dinner. What do you say, um...?”

“Anya.”

“Anya. What do you say?”

I needed to eat before I withered away. With the depletion of my magic, my body felt heavier, more cumbersome, and even this short period of alertness had sapped my energy. But I shook my head, huddling against the wall.

“I won’t go out there. And I’ll hurt anyone who enters this room aside from you.”

Marissa froze, then finished her work by the fireplace and scurried out the door. Shea examined me, eyes dark as flint.

“I understand you have no reason to trust me, but no one in this house wants to harm you. You would be dead if it weren’t for my father, Anya.”

She said my name like a challenge, and we continued our staring contest until she broke eye contact to set down the basket, her hard words and attitude in stark contrast to her youthful appearance. She lit the lamp at last, illuminating the side of the room where I sat, then pulled up a chair and silently rewrapped my wounds. The alcohol stung, but thankfully the process was short.

“I’ll bring your meal to you,” she offered, coming to her feet. Before I could decide on the right words to thank her, she retrieved her book and departed.

The room was somehow colder without her, and lonely, even though it was only minutes before she reentered to deliver my food. Still, I did not ask her to stay. The humans didn’t need to know that I was mentally as well as physically weak.

Shea left to join her family, and I ate. Then with the feeble burst of strength the food provided, I stumbled to the wardrobe. My footsteps felt thunderous, and every time my body swayed, its momentum felt impossible to stop. It yearned for the floor, and a near-silent moan of misery escaped from me. Catching the door of the wardrobe, I hauled myself out of my hunchbacked posture, my arm smarting where Falk’s bullet had struck me. It was by far the lesser of my injuries, but it felt like barbs hid beneath the skin regardless.

I swung open the wooden armoire door and fell to my knees before my pack. Reaching farther back, I found what remained of my bloodstained clothes. Beneath the washed but warped cloth lay the Queen’s Royal Anlace, solid, sharp, eight inches long and easy to conceal. I took it with me as I crawled to the bed, dragging along my satchel, and I tucked the blade under my pillow. Then I sorted through my possessions to see what supplies, if any, the humans had left untouched. Except for my travel papers, which I would need to venture farther into the Warckum Territory, everything was in its place: my jerky, my medical supplies, my long-knife...and my flask of Sale. I held it in a shaky hand, watching the firelight take stabs at the small container’s metal exterior as if attempting to drain what it contained. Sale—the drink that rejuvenated my people, speeded our healing and made us warm inside and strong out. I struggled with the cork, then put the bottle to my mouth, ready to endure whatever it took to regain my vitality. But at the last instant, I stopped and frantically scrubbed my lips clean of the amber liquid. Sale killed humans. The elemental magic of the Faerie drink overpowered their systems and poisoned them. Without my wings, was I now human? Would Sale kill me, too?

Wanting to test my nature, I held my hand over the pitcher on the bedside table and concentrated my life force, reaching for the water it contained, trying to connect with it; but there was no kinetic tingle in my fingers, and no accordant ripple on the water’s surface. If it weren’t for my eyes, I would have believed the pitcher empty.

“I’m right here,” I keened, my voice an urgent whisper. The liquid continued sleeping, as though I didn’t exist. Was this how it felt to be dead? Not a part of anything, cut off from your soul? Was this what it was like to be human?

Biting my lip, I buried the flask of Sale in the bottom of my pack, trembling at the possibilities it held. That drink could either heal me or leave me dead, and I wasn’t yet willing to take that bargain.

I lay down in bed, my fist clenched around the hilt of the Anlace in readiness to attack or defend. The vile thing—it was the reason I’d left Chrior. It had frightened me away. Hot tears stung my eyes. I never cried. I never cried.

I needed to return to the Road, now stained with my blood as well as the blood of the humans and Fae who had died in that final battle. I didn’t know how many precious drops of magic might still be inside me, but I had to try to get home before all of it was gone.

* * *

I woke after only a few hours with a pounding head and a body-wide ache—even in sleep, my muscles had been tensed to fight. I unclenched my jaw, rubbing my cheeks and temples, and scanned the humble room. Everything was gray in the morning light. It was so early even the colors were asleep.

A clock was ticking somewhere in the house, but there were no other noises. To all intents and purposes, I was alone. Reflexively, I tried to unfurl my wings to hover to the wardrobe, only to be met with intense pain—the nerves in my back were reaching out to make contact with appendages that no longer existed, and the resulting spasms, while they could probably have been called phantom pain, felt as real as the stabs from any blade.

I stepped softly, not wanting to wake anyone. My balance remained uncertain, forcing me to concentrate on my footing as though I were a young child. Teasing open the wardrobe door, I shuffled through the clothing stored inside—dresses of wool and linen in bland colors hung side by side, none of which would do for traveling. I knelt and slid open a drawer to find leggings and warm woolen tunics.

I threw off the nightgown the humans had lent me, thinking too late of my injuries as my shoulder blades protested the movement. Nausea undulated through me, and I swallowed hard, closing my eyes and steeling myself to vomit. Luckily, not enough remained in my stomach from the previous evening’s meal for me to suffer this indignity. I heaved a few deep breaths, then stood before the mirror to get dressed.

Bandages still swathed my chest and back, bandages I nervously unraveled before the looking glass. Part of me thought it would be wiser not to know, but the dominant part wanted to see the evidence, to see what those hunters had done to me, as though my fortitude in facing the reality of their actions might be some revenge against them. But at the first glimpse of my stitched and broken skin, the sickening proof of an involuntary amputation, I hurriedly rewrapped the wounds. Not now. I couldn’t deal with it now. Getting home was all that mattered.

I put on the clothes from the drawer, assuming they belonged to Shea, for they fit me reasonably well. She was shorter and stockier than I was, but my boots came far enough up my calf to cover the few inches of bare skin left by her leggings, and the bagginess of the tunic was negligible. After gathering my weapons and my bag of supplies, wincing away the ache of every minute addition of weight, I crept out the bedroom door.

In the main room of what I had deduced was a simple house, the ticking I’d heard was amplified. The tall clock that stood across from me was made of rough wood, but it had been carved with care, and had probably been built in the same space it occupied. Chairs sat before a barren fireplace, a rickety table took up most of the room and a kitchen crowded the only available corner. The floor was of raw wood, uneven beneath my boots.

The light outside was growing warmer, and I hastened to the front door. This was my best chance to return to Chrior. But before I could touch the handle, the door swung inward and a cold wind gusted over me, it’s prying fingers finding every fault in my woolen armor while it ushered in a man so tall he cast me into shadow. I could smell blood on him, blood and gunpowder, and the memory of Falk’s Pride flashed in my head as though I were in the square again, shaking in the mud, counting the fallen. I cowered and stumbled away from him, losing the more feeble balance I had without my wings. As my shoulder hit the wall, my back revolted, and I screamed. I would not pass out; I would not give up this opportunity to reach my homeland.

The man was growling something in a deep voice and coming closer, looming over me. I fumbled to protect myself, and my hand fell upon the Anlace just as his fist closed around my arm. I lashed out, and his yowl told me I’d made contact. Taking advantage of the moment, I scrambled to my feet, abandoning my pack. My heart was rising into my throat, and I gagged as I lurched through the door. There were more voices emanating from the house now, and I thought I detected the sounds of pursuit. Without looking back, I fled for my life in a direction I hoped would lead me to the Bloody Road.

CHAPTER FIVE

BLACK MAGIC

I ran and ran, winter birds cackling above my head, the snow turning my hands and wrists red with cold every time I stumbled and collapsed. My eyes fought for clarity as the pain in my shoulder blades stretched and intensified, but I pushed on through the maze of trees and the pristine white ground. There was pressure in my skull, and a persistent buzzing that after a time muted my hearing and reminded me of how little I’d eaten in the past— What had it been? A few days? A week? Nature forbid it had been more.

When I recognized a cluster of saplings, my energy was renewed, and I pulled myself up a slight incline, certain I was going the right way. Footprints soon marked a path, and that path led me to the eerily vacant Road, bookended on either side by walls of inhospitable thicket. I stopped, panting heavily, listening to the wind as it whistled a warning song through the hollow tunnel of trees.

My blood, perverting the snow, was the sole aspect of the landscape that was not gray or white or muted green like the needles of the trees, making its color all the more horrific. In a frozen, crimson grin it engulfed the base of the balsam against which I’d been pinned and stained the trunk, leaving me to surmise that it could not have been long since I’d been injured. Not the weeks I had feared, at any rate. It hadn’t snowed since I’d been attacked.

I dropped to the ground and gazed across the Road, squinting into the heatless sun. I saw a glimmer on the other side, a haze of beauty I would have called an illusion, except that magic was visible to those with a sharp enough eye. This gave us an advantage in recognizing one another in the Territory, for even a Faerie’s shroud was not imperceptible if one looked closely enough—light reflected from the supposedly empty space at Faefolk’s backs. Rarely could a human identify us, not with their diminished senses, but a few were gifted enough to spot the signs. What I saw across the Bloody Road were the lissome currents of Nature’s purest creation, currents of magic I longed to feel against my skin.

My heart seemed to pitch forward, and I stood, allowing my feet to follow. I lurched onto the Road, concentrating my thoughts on Davic, urging whatever magic remained in my body to trace the path of our promise bond and bring him to me. Although something fluttered under my skin, it was trapped there, stretching its fingers but unable to claw free. My bond with Davic may have still been in existence, but it floated without direction, just as my steps took me no closer to that beguiling sunrise in which everything was discernible—Ione’s diamond-blue eyes, my father’s gentle, reserved voice, the halo of righteousness that Ubiqua wore like a crown, Davic’s easygoing smile. My body was weakening, my hope and resolve with it, and the very essence of my being wanted to emerge from my chest. How easy it would have been to let it, to sink into obscurity and give myself back to the earth and its elements.

Then a tingling sensation invaded my arms, beginning in the tips of my fingers and growing in strength. It wasn’t painful, even as a similar sensation conquered my legs, and I watched in awe while my hands fell away like sand slipping through an hourglass. But when the sensation invaded the core of my being, striking me with the weight of an anvil, fire roared up my throat. I threw myself backward, but I was too far from the human side of the Road. I would die here on the frozen ground, and though I had contemplated death moments before, facing it in truth now was the surest proof that I wanted to live.

Through my terror, I felt pressure under my arms, and then, miraculously, the burning receded, and I was left a shuddering heap in the snow. Magic, black and cloudy, leaked from my pores, called back to the Road and its home in Chrior. I looked up to see Shea sitting beside me, examining her hands as the elusive substance slithered between her fingers, her disgust and confusion unmistakable. She tried to wipe her palms in the snow, her pallor a reminder that she, too, would have felt the retribution of the Road.

“It’s magic,” I murmured, watching the inky film evaporate from her skin. “It’s leaving me. Forever.”

“What the hell were you thinking?” she erupted, startling me with her vehemence as she snatched my collar with both hands. “You can’t go home. If I hadn’t followed you here, you would be dead, do you understand that? Home is gone, Anya. There’s no going back.”

Her dark eyes were red rimmed, and she pushed me away to swipe at them. Underneath her cloak she was in her nightclothes, and she was shivering uncontrollably despite the sweat beading on her brow.

“Why do you care?” I bristled, crawling to my knees, guilt spurring my raging emotions. “Why would you risk your life for me?”

“Maybe I’m stupid! I mean, I don’t even know you. But you must be important to someone. Or at least, someone is important to you. You kept saying his name in your sleep.”

“Davic,” I whispered.

“No. The name you said was Zabriel. Now tell me, would he want you to do this?”

Shea stood and offered her hand to help me up, and the heat of shame blazed across my face. How could I have forgotten, even during these dark days, even for a moment, the reason I had left Chrior? Ubiqua’s throne was not mine. Now it could never be, and the need for Zabriel to be found was greater than ever. With no way to communicate the new urgency of the situation to my friends and family in the Faerie Realm, the task was mine and mine alone. I had to locate Zabriel and convince him to return or else intercept Illumina and enlist her aid.

I trudged through the snow behind Shea, the two of us no longer speaking. Despite the pangs that afflicted my back, I dreaded our arrival at the cabin. The man I had injured was probably Shea’s father, and he would likely not be pleased at my return. He confirmed this the moment I walked in the front door. Half a foot taller than me, he made me feel insignificant as he gripped me around the arm, tightly compressing the abrasion left over from my bullet wound. I winced but said nothing. He escorted me to the bedroom I had been occupying, his lined and weathered face wearing a glower that warned me not to challenge him. With a shove, he sent me inside before closing and locking the door.

Rooted in place, I listened to his footsteps recede. My breath came fast and short, swirling about me in the stagnant room, and I resisted an urge to hammer on that door and break it down. I wanted Shea’s father to know I was a fighter, and not anyone’s prisoner. The irony was that my own actions had made me a captive—this morning, the lock had not been in use. Dragging my feet, I paced, ignoring the ache in my back and the hunger pains in my belly for as long as I could. Eventually, I noticed my satchel near the wardrobe—thankfully the man of the house had let me keep it.

I stuffed myself with jerky and stale bread, then, overcome by fatigue, I dozed for a bit. When I woke, I resumed my pointless pacing, on occasion considering the window as a way of escape. But I ultimately discarded the idea; I was not yet well enough to be on my own. If this morning’s misadventure hadn’t served as enough proof, I could feel sticky discharge—blood, pus, I couldn’t be sure—fighting through my bandages. I needed to recover here for several more days before I’d be ready to travel. Then I could run far away from that man whose dubious intentions fed the wellspring of dread in my chest.

As the day crept toward night and the shadows lengthened, the bedroom walls seemed to close in on me. Just when I thought I could stand the isolation no longer, the lock clicked and the door swung open, revealing the man I had injured. He considered me, then moved aside, inviting me into the main room with a sweep of his arm. I stepped past him, the heavy, appetizing smell of cooking meat combating my wariness, though I remained conscious of every shift in my host’s formidable form.

An entire family sat around the table, attired in pristine dresses. Their soft murmurs of conversation fell away at my approach and all eyes came to rest on me. There was Shea, of course, her chocolate hair pulled away from her face, and Marissa, the little girl who’d brought firewood to my room. There was another girl, a middle sister, and a blond-haired, blue-eyed woman whose fork and knife shook from the tension in her hands. Her lips trembled, but no words came forth, giving the appearance of extreme cold despite the heat from the fireplace and stove, which made the house almost overly warm. The raven-haired man, who was no doubt her husband, stepped around me to retake his seat, the strength he radiated more than enough to make up for any frailty in her.

Shea stood, her chair grinding against the floor. Her tightly fitted blue linen dress struck me as impractical, although a pouch and knife at least hung securely from her belt. Motioning to each family member at the table in turn, she made introductions.