The Iron Sword (The Fae War Chronicles Book 1) (30 page)

At the mention of Finnead, a few of the gathered knights called out in their own language, something that sounded like a battle-cry. Ramel grinned broadly.

“And she has joined us at our camp to help in whatever way her pretty mortal self can,” he finished. With a flourish, he took my hand and kissed it in a courtly but half-mocking fashion. I shook my head and grinned. The group laughed and called out teasingly to Ramel, and one even whistled a cat-call.

“You enjoy an audience too much,” I said to Ramel as he finally released my hand from his grip.

“No harm in that,” he replied. “See, look, they only wanted to know who you are. It’s not often they get to see such a superb display of swordsmanship, and it
is
a bonus that you are a beautiful mortal.”

“Stop saying that.” I shook my head as I untied my braid, re-plaiting it with practiced fingers.

“I only speak truth,” Ramel replied.

Before I thought of something else chastising to say, the Glasidhe descended on me.

“You did quite well, Tess!” Flora said.

“But you could have had a tighter guard,” broke in Forsythe.

Wisp landed on my shoulder. “The other Sidhe were rooting for you,” he said into my ear. “And look who we found!”

“We found you,” corrected Farin, tossing her short hair as she hovered in front of me. “Would you like a report, Lady Tess?”

I suppressed a smile, both at Farin’s honorific and at Ramel’s look of amused suspicion as the glows surrounded me, completely ignoring him. “Yes, that would be very helpful.”

Forin and Farin hovered at eye-level a comfortable distance away, standing very straight as they delivered their assessment.

“We followed the rescue party, as you asked,” began Farin. “It took them two days of hard riding, without stopping at night, to reach the site of the battle.”

“The original patrol was ambushed a half-league north of here, where the forest meets the foothills of the Edhyres,” said Forin.

“The Edhyre range proper does not start for another week’s ride, but the foothills stretch across the low-country for a good while,” clarified Farin. “The patrol suffered significant casualties, such as have not been seen since Bratchith the Blue awoke a century ago in the mountains and pillaged Queensport.”

“Bratchith the Blue is a dragon,” Wisp whispered into my ear.

I had to work hard to keep track of all the speakers, but it was valuable information. I motioned for the two small scouts to continue.

“The rescue party met the retreating patrol a half-day’s ride from here, in the forest. They were still being harried by…by the Dark things.” Farin stumbled over the words, and turned to her brother.

“The Shadowservants,” Forin said firmly. “They hid in the trees, in the shadows, with their iron.”

“We knifed one,” added Farin fiercely, showing her tiny, pointed teeth.

“Good,” I said just as fiercely, remembering the deformed creatures at the Saemhradall and their twisted joy in the pain of the Sidhe girl.

“And then we followed them back here,” Forin finished. “You arrived a day after them. We were about to depart back to Darkhill to report to you.”

They looked at me expectantly, their glows pulsing with their wings.

“Thank you,” I said to them. “You’ve done very well, and I appreciate your work very much.” Then I paused. “Did you by any chance see their Walker, a few days ago?”

Forin turned to Farin, who said in a small, sad voice, “Their Walker was killed.”

“By someone here?” I asked.

“We do not know,” Farin said, her voice trembling.

I could see the question upset them, and Ramel had suddenly gone very still, listening intently. “Thank you,” I said to the glows. They bobbed in their version of a bow, and then whizzed away into the deepening dark.

“Well, look at you,” Ramel said. “You have your own little spies.”

“You left me behind,” I said defensively. “I had to do
something
.”

Ramel ran his fingers through his hair, sighing. “I wonder if you are too invested in our world for your own good, Tess.”

“I don’t have a choice. Bound here by Mab, remember?”

“I remember.”

“Then save the patronizing for someone who needs it.” I crossed my arms and looked at him silently.

“You’re right,” he said finally. “You don’t need my protection anymore.” He rubbed his chest where I had pricked him with my blade.

“I’m not saying I don’t want you to teach me anymore,” I said, thinking with a sinking feeling that this wasn’t the conversation I wanted to have with Ramel right now. “That’s not what I was saying at all.”

Ramel shook his head with a small smile. “Not everything has to be said aloud, Tess. I’m not mad at you, if that’s what makes you so tense.” He toyed with the hilt of his sword. “There comes a time when every student matches their teacher. I just didn’t think it would come so soon.”

“I didn’t match you,” I protested. “You still won.”

“Barely.” He grinned at me. “You know, I believe that you’re right, my dear. Even though you grew up in the mortal world, you still turned out all right after all.”

“Well, thanks for that assessment,” I said drily. My stomach growled loudly. “Is there any food around this place?”

“Only the best,” Ramel said with false cheer. “Bread and cheese and dried meat for the victorious defenders of the northern barracks!”

“Well, that sounds marvelous right about now.”

“Your wish is my command! Bread and cheese it is,” he said.

I followed him back to the barracks, breathing in the cool night air and watching the Glasidhe fly like impossibly close shooting stars across the velvet-dark sky.

Chapter 26

I
spent that night on the floor of the middle room, curled close to the embers of the fire with my cloak rolled under my head for a pillow. Allene and two other healers worked in shifts throughout the night, and every so often a watch-stander would walk through the sleeping forms on the ground, nudging with their toe until they found their replacement. So it wasn’t the best night of sleep I’d ever had, but the interruptions at least served as a barrier against deep dreaming, and, in turn, against Walking. Part of me wanted to Walk to the river-tree. I wanted to smell its sweet scent again, and curl my body in the hollow between its roots. I didn’t know why I had such a strong desire to return to the tree, other than it was the setting of my dream about Finnead. I told myself firmly that it was just a dream, and pushed all other thoughts of the river-tree from my mind as I settled back down into fitful sleep.

In the gray early hours of the morning, I rose with the others and blearily strapped on my sword-belt, swinging my quiver and bow over my shoulder as I grabbed a piece of stale bread and dried meat from the table against the wall. One of the night sentries had shot a brace of squirrels, and an off-duty healer set about skinning and dressing the carcasses. My mouth watered at the thought of roasted meat, but I followed the others out into the cool soft morning. In the dew-laced field where Ramel and I had sparred, the Sidhe set up targets, and we practiced sinking our arrows into them. The practice area was eerily silent, broken only by the twang of released bowstrings and the hiss of the arrows through the air, followed by the soft thud as they hit the targets. Occasionally one archer would offer advice to another, but for the most part it was individual, focused practice. My arm ached by the time we were done an hour later, but I noted with satisfaction that my arrows had found their mark a good portion of the time, and the other archers hadn’t looked at me scornfully (or taken any particular notice of me at all, to my relief). Tension stretched the air, leavening the cool morning with a sense of watchfulness. I glimpsed Sidhe in the trees, sentries springing up into the branches with the lithe powerful grace of panthers, all of them with a quiver and bow slung across their back.

I spotted Vell standing across the clearing and Beryk slinking through the shadows of the trees as I approached. He watched me with his golden eyes, and even though I hadn’t said a word, Vell said without glancing at me, “Good morning, Tess. How are you finding the barracks?”

Shrugging, I said, “I don’t know what I expected. But this seems like so much…waiting.”

“That’s one of the most unexpected parts of war,” she replied, turning her honey-colored gaze on me like a sudden beam of light sweeping down from the sky. “The waiting. The wondering, and worrying, and sitting uselessly for days at a time.”

“Why are we staying here, then?” I asked.

“Because they can’t move the wounded, and there is no shelter from the Darkness between here and the Queen’s protection.”

“If Mab is so powerful, she should be able just to…” I swept my arm through the air. “Put a blanket of protection over us, until we’re back to Darkhill.”

Vell smiled, her eyes narrowing as she considered me. “I hear the bitterness in your voice.” She leaned back against the tree trunk, her smile stretching into a mirthless grin. “Bitterness is something I know well.”

Beryk padded in slow circles around us. He stopped when he faced the forest, standing stiff-legged, his ears twitching as he surveyed the shadows alertly. A low growl rumbled from his throat.

“He can smell them,” Vell explained quietly, walking up beside the wolf and running her fingers lightly through the fur on his neck.

“So they’re here, waiting.” I strained my eyes staring into the mottled darkness of the forest.

Vell nodded. “Waiting.”

“For
what
?” I wondered aloud. Was there some signal, a red flare that would shoot up into the night and tell the creatures it was time to attack? Perhaps Malravenar could just think of attacking us, just let the order drift through his mind, and his servants would fire their iron-tipped arrows and ride their ghastly beasts out of the forest.

“For a sign of weakness.” Vell gazed into the forest for a moment longer, and then turned back to me. “That is why there is waiting in war. You wait for weakness…a sentry drifting into sleep, a cold rainy night that provides cover for movement…then you strike.” Beryk snapped his jaws as Vell uttered the last word in her statement, as if he were clamping his teeth on the throat of an unsuspecting deer.

“Well, let’s hope we don’t show any weakness until Molly gets here, then,” I said. My stomach growled loudly: the quick breakfast of cheese and bread had hardly been satisfying. Vell wordlessly opened her belt-pouch and drew out a small leaf-wrapped packet. Opening it, she offered me a small piece of the dense black bread.

“You only need a bit of
kajuk
in your stomach to go a long way,” she said, breaking off a small piece for herself as well.

The
kajuk
tasted entirely different than any bread I’d ever tasted: nutty, slightly sweet and tangy. I worked hard to keep my expression neutral but failed as an intensely bitter aftertaste assaulted my mouth. My nose scrunched of its own accord but as I began to stammer an apology I noticed a twinkle of amusement in Vell’s eyes.

“I told you I was used to the taste of bitterness,” she said with a straight face.

I rolled my eyes and finished the
kajuk
. “I thought you were speaking metaphorically.”

Vell shrugged. “Perhaps I was, and then again perhaps I was not.”

“Well,” I said, swallowing, “even though it’s not my favorite taste in the world, my stomach isn’t growling anymore. What do you use to make it?”

“You don’t want to know. Trust me.” Vell popped the last piece of her
kajuk
into her mouth and then turned, walking along the border of the forest toward the barracks.

“I didn’t see you inside last night,” I said, matching my stride to hers.

“Maybe I wasn’t inside,” she said off-handedly.

“You slept out here? With…?”

“With the creatures? Yes.”

Vell fell silent as we approached the barracks. She stopped, and I stopped, and we stood for a moment looking at each other. She put a hand on her hip. “Well, go on then.”

I realized she was waiting for me to go inside. “Aren’t you coming?”

“No,” she replied simply, still waiting. Beryk yawned and looked away disinterestedly.

With a sigh at apparently having been assigned a baby-sitter, I turned and walked to the door of the barracks. When I glanced back over my shoulder, all I glimpsed was a black tail disappearing into the shadows of the woods.

Inside, I whiled away an hour, re-coiling my spare bow-strings and checking the fletching of my arrows, running my fingers over the green-dyed feathers to make sure they were securely glued to the shaft of the arrow. The arrowheads were carved out of an incredibly hard wood, with razor-sharp edges tapering to a deadly point. Even though they weren’t made of metal, the Fae arrows were no less deadly. Then I sharpened my daggers on a stone I borrowed from one of the other Sidhe, a slim young man with oak-dark hair and deep brown eyes.

“I saw you yesterday, sparring with Ramel,” he commented casually as he handed me the sharpening-stone. He watched me draw the edge of my blade against the stone in a quick, smooth motion. “Is it true you are mortal?”

I didn’t look up from sharpening my dagger. “Isn’t it obvious when there’s a mortal around? I thought that Sidhe could…I don’t know, smell it, like a shark smells blood in the water or something.”

The young guard looked slightly bemused at my comparison—whether it was because he found it genuinely amusing or because it puzzled him, I wasn’t entirely sure. “There is something different about you,” he said slowly, “but it doesn’t feel entirely foreign, as a mortal would. Or as I’ve been told a mortal would feel,” he corrected himself.

I nodded. “I’m guessing you’ve never met any mortals.”

“No.” He smiled slightly, blushing. “I’m not interested in…in the carnal aspect of meeting a mortal, although that would certainly be…ah…interesting.”

Trying to suppress a smile, I looked up at him. “It’s fine. I’ve been told of your compatriots’ preferences.” I sat back, inspecting the keen edge of my dagger. I tested the point with the pad of my finger, and cursed when I pricked myself. A bright red drop of blood welled up from my skin, sitting fatly on the tip of my finger. I went to wipe it away and paused, noticing that the young guard’s eyes were riveted on that small drop of blood. I cleared my throat. “I’m Tess,” I offered.

“Moryn,” he replied distractedly.

“Please tell me that you don’t have any vampiric tendencies, Moryn,” I said, rubbing my finger against the dark cloth of my trousers.

“What?” Moryn blinked. “Vampir…
oh,
no, we find blood very unappetizing. Although there are stories of knights drinking the blood of willing mortals, very long ago, it was written into the Code that such things are forbidden.” He swallowed. “I’ve just never seen red blood before.”

“Well, I never saw blue blood before I came here,” I retorted, “and you don’t see me staring at one of your paper-cuts like Dracula.”

“Dracula?” This time poor Moryn did look distinctly puzzled.

“Never mind. Mortal story. Vampire who sucked the blood out of humans.”

Moryn had the grace to look faintly disgusted. “I must say, you have fascinating folklore.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly, sheathing my small dagger and drawing my longer one out of my boot-sheath. Moryn eyed the blade appreciatively.

“And you have good taste in weapons.”

I inclined my head. “I try. Only because I’ve had good teachers.”

“Ah. Ramel.” Moryn nodded, watching me whet the blade a few times before he spoke again. “You did not move like a mortal, when you sparred with him yester-eve.”

“I didn’t?” The slick grating of the whet-stone against my blade seasoned my words.

“No. Although you would probably be considered a bit slow, you moved like a young squire.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the insult, so earnestly delivered. “You know, for a people that has a High Court and all the trappings, you really haven’t mastered the art of polite conversation.”

“It isn’t rude to state a fact,” Moryn replied smoothly. “And you should take it as a compliment, since for a mortal to move like a Sidhe is very rare.”

I finished sharpening my blade in silence, Moryn watching calmly. After I handed the stone back to him and thanked him, I stood and stretched my legs, slipping the dagger back into my boot-sheath. I walked slowly through the room, watching the quiet industry of the guards and knights. In the middle room, two healers slept on the floor by the fire, wrapped in their cloaks. I paused, looking down at their faces, beautiful but exhausted even in sleep. The ghostly scent of blood and sweat stung my nose, but I squared my shoulders and slipped into the infirmary. Maybe I could fill my waiting with usefulness.

Candles flickered beside a few of the cots, creating dancing shadows on the walls of the long, windowless room. It felt like night, even though dawn had already brightened the sky outside. One of the healers stood at the end of the room in conversation with two other men. The candlelight glinted red-gold on one man’s hair, and I recognized Ramel. It would make sense for him to help with the healing, since even a drop of mortal blood would help him resist the poison of the iron. I started walking toward the group, my booted feet almost silent on the floorboards, and I was half-way across the room before Ramel shifted and I saw Finnead standing beside him. I clenched my jaw, telling myself not to expect even an acknowledgement of existence from Finnead.

“Tess,” said Ramel in a quiet voice that still somehow conveyed his usual flippant humor. “How nice of you to join us.”

“I thought I could help,” I said.

“You can. Don’t think we forgot about you,” replied Ramel with half a grin. “This is Eamon, one of our healers.”

Eamon nodded gravely to me. “We could use a pair of hands that can touch iron without injury.”

I held up my hands for inspection. “Then I’m your girl.” I smiled, and was rewarded by a tired smile from Eamon. He motioned to the chairs grouped loosely around a plain table. I sat down, Eamon on one side of me and Ramel on the other. Finnead remained standing. Ramel glanced at him but said nothing as Eamon spread the contents of his bag on the table, all glinting instruments and white cloth.

In the next hours, Eamon taught me the basics of doctoring the Sidhe wounded, showing me how to use the tools in his healing-pack, educating me on the signs of iron poisoning in the Fae. For the Sidhe, their skin took on a gray pallor, and their lips slowly turned blue. The flesh around the wound, if there was enough iron, began to turn black, reminding me of the grisly war-time photos of gangrene in textbooks about the Civil War. The sliver that had been extracted from Merrick was apparently a very small shard, and that was one of the only reasons a Sidhe soldier as young as Merrick survived an iron wound.

“He’ll still have a nasty scar,” Eamon explained, “as the iron residue still affects the healing flesh. But he’ll no doubt use it to his advantage with the ladies of the Court.”

“Chicks dig scars,” I agreed gravely. Ramel chuckled and Eamon looked slightly puzzled for a moment but then he continued on with my education, glossing over my reference in favor of using our time efficiently. Every quarter-hour or so he paused, walking up and down the row of cots, kneeling here and there to check a wound or lay the back of his hand against a fallen soldier’s brow. I counted the occupants of the infirmary: eleven, all said and done. I saw Merrick, still in the same bed, but with a healthy color to his skin, sleeping peacefully with a bandage still wrapped around his bare chest.

Finnead stood slightly apart from Eamon, Ramel and I, making rounds as Eamon continued to teach me. Every so often, I caught him looking at me, and the look in his eyes startled me. Exhaustion showed on his face as well, though he carried it more stoically than Eamon; and when his gaze settled on my face a peculiar sadness crossed his beautiful features. Still listening to Eamon, I observed him from the corner of my eye.

His gaze traveled from Eamon’s face as he listened to the healer’s explanations, to my face—that strange pain twisting the blue of his eyes—then onto Ramel. And when his eyes reached Ramel a shadow fell over his entire expression. Once or twice I saw his throat working as he tried to control that unfathomable emotion.

After a good two hours of instruction, Eamon made me practice stitches on a piece of cloth. I’d never been very good at embroidery, and at first the stitches were large and uneven. Ramel left to go check on the sentries, and Finnead remained a silent shadow lingering by the edge of the table. Under Eamon’s patient tutoring, I managed to produce an acceptable row of stitches binding two edges of the white cloth together, the silver needle glimmering in the dim light. When Eamon began to explain the different depth of stitch needed to close different edges of wounds, comparing the clean cut of a sword wound to the ragged puncture of an arrowhead, I had to swallow against the sudden bitter taste in my mouth. Using a needle and thread to stitch together cloth was all well and good, but the thought of piercing skin with the needle made me a little sick.