Maythorn's Wish (The Fey Quartet Book 1) (9 page)

What if he banishes me?

They’d intended to overnight at Dapple Weir, where Ren’s brother was blacksmith, but when they reached Dapple Hollow in the lazy, bee-humming warmth of early afternoon, they discovered the Lord Warder and his liegeman Rauf Ironfist were in conference with the village alderman.

“We had a bit of trouble here the night of the bonfire,” Dapple Hollow’s thatcher told them, as they drank water at the village well. “Gilbert Baker got a mite too friendly with John Swineherd’s daughter, which she didn’t like overmuch, and John liked even less, and they got to fighting and John stuck Gilbert with a knife, except he didn’t
mean
to—they was both drunk.” The thatcher grimaced, and scratched his head. “So the Lord Warder’s come to sort it out.”

“Was Gilbert badly injured?” Ren asked.

The thatcher shook his head. “It’s John we’re all worried about. What if Dappleward banishes him? It don’t warrant that!”

“Dappleward only banishes troublemakers,” Ren said. “Is John Swineherd that?”

“Neither of ’em’s troublemaking. It was just the drink.”

“Then John Swineherd should be all right.”

“I hope you’re right,” the thatcher said, and sighed gustily. “I hope you’re right.”

NOT LONG AFTER
that, two men emerged from the alderman’s house looking sheepish and relieved. Gilbert Baker and John Swineherd, Maythorn guessed. Shortly after that, two more men stepped out into the sunshine. She had no need to guess who they were. Guy Dappleward and Rauf Ironfist.

Ironfist was built on the same scale as Ren, but there the resemblance ended; Ironfist’s face was tough and craggy, and he wore a huge sword belted at his hip.

Maythorn’s stomach tied itself in a knot. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

Another man emerged from the house, gray-haired, with an alderman’s chain hanging at his throat. Dappleward and his liegeman stood talking to the alderman for several minutes, and then Ironfist looked around and saw Ren. He gave a blink of surprise, and a nod of greeting.

Ren nodded back.

Ironfist detached himself from his liege lord and crossed to where they stood. The two men clasped hands. Ironfist was half an inch shorter than Ren, and slightly thicker in the chest. “Ren Blacksmith,” he said, in a deep, gravelly voice. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re on our way to see Dappleward. But our business can wait until tomorro
w—
”

“Dappleward?” Ironfist glanced from Ren to Maythorn, and back. Years lined his face and his ash-blond beard was turning gray, but his gaze was knife-sharp.

“Yes.” Ren’s hand closed lightly on Maythorn’s shoulder. “This is Maythorn of York. She has a tale the Lord Warder needs to hear. Privately.”

Ironfist’s eyebrows rose. “He does, does he? In that case, let’s not wait until tomorrow.” He gave a short nod, and walked back to his lord. A brief, murmured conversation ensued, and Maythorn found the Lord Warder looking at her. Dappleward was shorter and leaner than his liegeman and he carried no sword, but somehow he was as intimidating as Ironfist. His grave gaze had
weight
.

The Lord Warder nodded, Ironfist beckoned, and the alderman opened the door to his house.

The knot in Maythorn’s stomach twisted even tighter. “Can you tell them, please?” she whispered.

“If you need me to, I will.” Ren smiled down at her, and touched her cheek gently with his fingertips. “But I don’t think you will. You have more courage than anyone I know, Maythorn of York.”

DAPPLE HOLLOW’S ALDERMAN
was its weaver. A tall loom dominated the main room and half a dozen finely woven tapets hung on the walls, but Maythorn had no eyes for them. She watched Dappleward pull out a stool at the long trestle table.

Ironfist gestured that they sit opposite the Lord Warder.

The alderman set out four pewter goblets and a jug of cider, said “You’ll be quite private, my lord,” and then left, closing the door firmly behind him.

Ironfist’s sword clanked as he took a stool next to his liege lord.

Maythorn’s heart climbed to the base of her throat, where it sat beating fast. She glanced at Ren, seated alongside her. He smiled, and she saw in his gray-green eyes that he loved her.

Dappleward folded his hands on the table, and gazed across at her. “Your name is Maythorn of York?”

Maythorn nodded mutely.

“Let me hear your tale.”

Ren took her hand in a warm, reassuring grip.

Maythorn clutched it tightly, and gulped a deep breath. Ren believed she had courage. “My name is Maythorn of York, but it’s also Widow Miller. Last week, when I was in the forest . . .”

Dappleward and Ironfist listened intently. Frowns gathered on their faces as she spoke. When she said she’d requested wishes for her daughters, Ironfist grimaced. When she said the Faerie had agreed to bestow wishes on her female bloodline, he grimaced again.

Maythorn held on to Ren’s hand and finished her story. “Ren said I needed to tell you.” She looked at the two frowning faces opposite her, and wished that she hadn’t.
They’re not happy
.

“Who, other than Ren and your daughters, knows of this?” the Lord Warder asked.

“No one.”

The Lord Warder released his breath, and sat back on his stool. He exchanged a glance with his liegeman. “It could be worse.”

“It could be a
lot
worse.” Ironfist raked a hand through his close-cropped hair. “If the secret can be kept . . .”

“If? An entire female bloodline?”

“We do the best we can,” Ironfist said firmly. “Can’t do any more than that.”

“No.” The Lord Warder studied Maythorn’s face for a moment, and then smiled faintly. “Don’t look so worried. I’m glad you came to speak with me.” He reached for the jug, poured cider into two goblets, and pushed them towards her and Ren. “Something somewhat similar happened several centuries ago. A young stonemason in Dapple Reach. His wife was dying and he went to the Faerie border and offered an exchange of gifts.”

“I’ve heard of that,” Maythorn ventured hesitantly. “He offered his firstborn child.”

Dappleward shook his head. “He offered a song. One song, sung with all his heart—and his gift was accepted.”

“He had a particularly fine voice,” Ironfist said.

“The Lord Warder at the time changed the story.” Dappleward poured cider for himself and his liegeman. “It took two generations for the tale to stick. Thank the gods it finally did.”

Maythorn bit her lip, and then asked, “Why?”

“Because the stonemason didn’t keep his encounter with the Fey a secret,” Ironfist said. “By the end of that first week, over a dozen people had set out from Dapple Reach to try to earn wishes for themselves. None came back—unless you count the donkey, who was probably the thatcher’s son . . . only no one could ever be certain.”

“The Lord Warder forbade anyone to approach the border.” Dappleward said. “But the stonemason’s tale spread down the vale and by the end of that year, upwards of three score people had tried to strike bargains with the Fey.”

“Tried, and failed,” Ironfist said grimly.

“The stonemason’s first child
did
die,” Dappleward said. “And the Lord Warder took that fact and made a new story. One that deterred people from seeking out the Fey. But it took two generations and almost a hundred people missing.
That
is what I wish to avoid.”

“No one knows about the wishes except Ren and my daughters,” Maythorn assured him hastily.

He smiled at her again. “For which I thank your good sense.” The smile faded, and his face became serious. “But I must ask for your word that you’ll never reveal your secret—you and Ren Blacksmith both—and I’ll need your daughters’ words, too.”

“Of course,” Maythorn said.

“And their daughters and granddaughters and great-granddaughters.” Ironfist sighed, and shook his head. “Your
entire
female bloodline?”

“I’m sorry,” Maythorn said, and discovered that Ironfist was hiding a small smile beneath his grizzled beard. She blinked. The dread warrior could smile?

“We do the best we can.” Dappleward repeated Ironfist’s earlier words. “Your situation is different from the stonemason’s—you
saved
one of the Fey, something I doubt anyone else will ever do—but I fear that people will be tempted to seek the border if they realize what you’ve won. Youth is a great prize.”

“There’s always someone willing to take a risk if the reward is great enough,” Ironfist said, in his gravelly voice. “Human nature.”

“Which brings us to my next concern.” Dappleward paused, and sipped his cider. “What exactly did you ask for?”

“To be healed of my injuries, and to be fifteen years younger.”

“Why fifteen?”

“I didn’t want to be younger than my daughters. It didn’t feel right.”

The Lord Warder exchanged another glance with his liegeman. “I think you’re extremely lucky you phrased your wish as you did. I think that if you’d asked for your youth back, there’s a strong chance you’d have found yourself an infant—and as an infant, you’d have died out there in the forest . . . unless someone found you.”

Maythorn stared at him.

“The Fey are cruel. If they can harm us, they will—unless they have a whim not to. They’re
dangerous
. I need to talk to your daughters, not just to obtain pledges of secrecy, but to warn them to choose their wishes very carefully.”

Maythorn shook her head, aghast. “I didn’t want to
endanger
them!”

“Of course you didn’t.” Dappleward’s face relaxed into a brief smile. He gestured at the pewter goblet in front of her. “Drink.”

Numbly, she reached for the goblet. The cider fizzed tartly on her tongue and almost choked in her throat.

“In addition to a pledge of secrecy, I will need a pledge from your daughters that they’ll choose wishes that aren’t . . .” Dappleward’s brow furrowed as he sought a word. “Aren’t obviously Faerie magic. Which brings me to another problem. Your eldest daughter. I understand that her wish will be to heal her lameness?”

Maythorn clutched her goblet. “Ivy’s been lame for
twenty-one
years.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “You can’t ask it of her! She
has
to walk again!”

Dappleward held up one hand, halting her words. “Widow Miller . . . Maythorn . . . I’m not asking that she remain lame—I’m asking how we can conceal that it’s Faerie magic.”

“There’s a way—there’s always a way. We just have to find it.” That deep, rumbling voice was Ironfist’s.

Maythorn blinked back her tears.

The room was silent for a long moment, and then Ren said, “My grandfather told a tale about a woodcutter who lost his sight—a branch fell on him—and three years later he fell over and hit his head and he could see again.”

“I heard that, too,” Ironfist said.

“Could Ivy not fall over?” Ren said. “And be bedridden several days, and then find she can walk again?”

Maythorn wiped her eyes. “Perhaps.”

“Or . . .” Ironfist said musingly. “Or the gods could visit her in a dream and tell her that her fortitude—her patient and uncomplaining fortitude—of the last twenty-one years is being rewarded, and her lameness healed. It’d be magic, but not Faerie magic.”

There was another long moment of silence, and then Dappleward said, “Either could work. If your daughter is prepared to dissemble.”

Maythorn thought of her eldest daughter—grave, thoughtful, wise. She could no more imagine Ivy dissembling than she could imagine her running whooping through the village. “She won’t like it, but she’ll understand why it’s necessary.” She looked across the table at Dappleward. The Lord Warder was a man of fifty, with a bony face and high-bridged nose, but he reminded her strongly of Ivy. “She’s very like you, my lord.” They both had the same quiet manner, the same observant gaze, the same fleeting, solemn smile.

“I look forward to making her acquaintance. Now tell me, when are their birthdays?”

“Hazel in a couple of weeks, Larkspur ten days later, and Ivy two weeks after that.”

“Ah . . .” the Lord Warder said. “Soon.” He frowned down at his goblet for a moment. “I’ll come to Dapple Bend this week and talk with them.”

Maythorn hesitated, and then said, “My youngest, Larkspur, she’s . . . she’s very shy. Please don’t frighten her too much.”

“I try not to frighten young maidens,” Dappleward said gravely, and then his eyes crinkled at the corners in another faint smile. “Do have some more cider.”

They sat drinking cider, and the men discussed the new bridge at Dapple Hollow, and Maythorn found herself slowly relaxing. Dappleward was the most powerful man in the vale, and Ironfist the most dangerous, but there was more to them than their reputations had led her to believe. Dappleward wasn’t just stern and wise, he was kind. And for all Ironfist’s brawniness and the sword belted at his hip, he was as astute as the Lord Warder, and just as kind.

When their goblets were empty, Dappleward climbed to his feet, and Maythorn and Ren knelt before him and took oaths of secrecy.

“I pledge, upon pain of banishment from Dapple Vale, to never speak of my Faerie wish, or of my daughters’ wishes, to anyone barring a Dappleward or an Ironfist.” The words had a dreadful weight.
Banishment from Dapple Vale
. Maythorn shuddered inwardly.

Dappleward helped her to her feet and took both her hands in his. “If you should ever need to discuss any of this, and if Ironfist and myself are away, both my sons will know of this matter, and Ironfist’s son. That will be the extent of it: you and Ren Blacksmith and your daughters, Rauf and I and our sons.”

Maythorn nodded soberly.

The Lord Warder released her hands. “I shall see you in Dapple Bend in a few days.”

“Thank you.” She dipped a curtsy. “I’m sorry you have to come all that way for us.”

“I should have had to come soon regardless; I need to speak to your alderman on another matter.” Dappleward paused, and seemed to be considering his next words. He glanced at Ironfist.

The liegeman shrugged. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

The Lord Warder turned his gaze to Ren. “Whitelock has requested to step down from his duties as Dapple Bend’s alderman—he’s feeling his age—and the person he’d like to replace him is you, Ren Blacksmith.”