Darkly Fae: The Moraine Cycle

  “Don’t think I don’t know why you have me in the lead,” the princess called out as she leapt over a moss-covered tree root.

  Tearloch did not reply.

  “You can admit it,” she said. “You have no sense for navigation.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “I could find my way through the forest blindfolded.”

  “Fine,” she said, dancing around a pine that had been felled by lightning strike. “Then it must be because you prefer the view from behind.”

  When she cast a teasing look back over her shoulder, he knew she was deliberately taunting him. They both knew he did not trust her. They both knew precisely why she was walking in front.

  But as she turned her attention back to the path, her teasing suggestion wormed its way into his mind. He could not help but skim his gaze over her.

  He would have thought the clothes she chose for the journey—a pair of soft leather breeches, a heavy woolen sweater, and a pair of lace up boots—far less flattering and less feminine than the lavender gown in which she arrived at the Castle Moraine. He was wrong.

  Forcing himself to redirect his thoughts, he clenched his jaw and pointed his gaze above the pile of curls atop her head. Better he keep his attention on the upcoming path than on his companion. The last thing he needed to be thinking about was the way the soft leather hugged her form.

  He shoved the thoughts from his mind.

  They soon fell into a rhythm. The princess spent most of her time throwing barbs at him. And despite his best intentions he found himself rising to the bait more often than not.

  So when they emerged from the woods into a clearing, with majestic Mount Winter looming high above them, and she stopped in her tracks, he fully expected another verbal spar. If he were being honest with himself, he was actually looking forward to it.

  But instead of the snide comment or teasing barb, she gave him a pained look and said, “I’m famished. Shall we lunch?”

  For several long seconds he stood there, stunned. She stared at him, her expression growing more and more confused and concerned the longer he stood silent.

  Finally, he shook himself out of his trance.

  “Of course, Princess.”

  She spun in a circle, surveying the area around them.

  “There,” she said, pointing to a long, flat rock formation that sat about the height of a bench. “That looks like the perfect spot for a picnic.”

  Tearloch nodded. He swung his pack into one hand and carried it over to the bench. As he began to undo the laces that held the contents secure within, the princess set her own pack on the rock.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I’ll be right back.”

  She started to turn away, but Tearloch grabbed her. “Where are you going?”

  “I need a bit of privacy,” she said. When he did not let go of her arm, she said, “I have to relieve myself. I prefer to do so without an audience.”

  Tearloch released her as if she had caught fire. He mumbled something that he hoped was, “Of course,” and, “My apologies,” but he couldn’t be certain.

  As she disappeared around the nearest rock large enough to conceal her from view, Tearloch mentally berated himself. True, he did not trust the princess, but what did he expect her to do? Where did he think she could go? They were a full half a day’s walk from the sanctuary. Farther even from any fae settlement.

  Reassured that she was only doing as she had said, Tearloch went about the business of locating their lunch. He found the carefully wrapped sandwiches the palace cook had prepared, along with a pair of what looked like squash cakes and a small bottle of sweet-meade.

  He laid out one of his blankets over the rock. Set out the food. Poured sweet-meade into a cup for the princess and set the bottle in front of his setting. Then he switched them. Why should the princess drink from the cup? It wasn’t as if she’d thought to pack it. Then he switched them back. What would it hurt to be a little polite? He was stuck with her for the next two days at least and he did not relish the idea of her stabbing him in his sleep.

  He was just about to switch them a third time, when he realized he had been arranging and rearranging the lunch setting for quite some time. The princess had been gone for far longer than it should have taken her to relieve herself, as she said.

  He set the cup and bottle on the blanket and crossed to the near side of the rock she had disappeared behind.

  “Princess?” he called out.

  No response. Not a sound.

  “Princess Arianne?”

  Still nothing.

  “Princess, if you have a problem…” He held his hands over his eyes and stepped carefully around the rock. He kept his gaze trained on the ground, so he could see where he was walking and not accidentally see something he shouldn’t.

  He expected a shriek of outrage. Maybe even a rock to the head.

  But again, nothing.

  “If this is a joke…”

  Finally the silence overcame his hesitation. He dropped his hand and, much to his lack of surprise, saw absolutely nothing. She was gone.

  He muttered a foul curse.

  “Princess!” he shouted, not caring if the entire mountain heard him. “Princess Arianne, return immediately or face the consequences!”

  He was not quite certain what those consequences would be. It was not as if he could dish out punishment to a royal princess, enemy or not. But he would think of something.

  He squatted down on the ground, searching for any trace of her lighter-than-air footsteps. Now he wished he had allowed Regan to accompany them. She was as skilled a tracker as he had ever known. Her abilities far outstretched his in such things. She could have easily told him if the princess had been here, when she had gone, if she had gone under her own power or—

  Tearloch jerked up. Muttered another curse.

  He had been so concerned about Arianne betraying them, betraying him, that he had not stopped to think that perhaps she had not gone willingly. She had done nothing but cooperate since the moment his clan surrounded her palace. All of their sparring had been of a teasing nature, with no real venom behind the words. He should not leap to the conclusion that she had run off. He should at least consider the possibility that foul play was—

  “Oh, there you are,” her voice sing-songed from right behind him.

  Tearloch spun around.

  She stood there, looking just as well as when she’d vanished behind the rock, a blindingly proud smile on her face.

  He closed the distance between them, looming over her with all the menace his additional height could convey. He was at once relieved to see her unharmed and furious at himself for even caring. His only concern should be her holding up her end of the bargain, getting him to the witch and finding out to where the traitor Ultan had fled. That she might have come to any harm should be the least of his concerns.

  “Where did you go?” he ground out.

  Her smile flickered, but did not fall. She raised a hand between them. “Alpine strawberries.” She waved the handful of red berries beneath his nose. “I can smell them from a mile away. I couldn’t resist.”

  “Strawberries?”

  She nodded. “A special treat for our lunch.”

  She sauntered past him, circling back around the rock to where he had spread out their picnic lunch.

  “Strawberries,” he muttered, following after her. For the first time, Tearloch was not certain he would survive this mountain trek. At least not with his sanity in tact.

  Chapter 9

  Arianne’s feet felt like blocks of ice. Their pleasant lunch in the clearing was nothing but a distant memory. The higher they climbed into the mountains, the colder the air. The more she missed the ability to do anything about it.

  She had never resented the curse on her people more.

  What she wouldn’t give to be able to warm the air around her, even a little bit. To send her energy into a stone and use it to heat her shivering skin.

  B
ut there was no point in bemoaning her inability to use her powers for anything short of survival. Wishing wouldn’t change reality.

  Her feet felt like leaden icicles at the ends of her legs. She tried to lift them high enough to overcome the rocks and branches in her path. For the most part she had been successful.

  But each step became harder. Stiffer. More frozen.

  She tried to clear the next rock… and failed. She went down.

  Powerful hands wrapped around her arms before she hit the ground.

  Tearloch pulled her upright and turned her to face him. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes-s-s,” she said, unable to hide the shiver. “J-j-just c-c-cold.”

  She could feel the heat of his palms through the thick layers of her clothing. In that moment, all she wanted was to step into him, to let him wrap her in that warmth.

  “Why don’t you use your magic?” he asked.

  “C-c-can’t.“ She was too cold and exhausted for explanation.

  He did not push for any.

  “We aren’t far from the campsite,” he said. “Can you make it a few minutes more?”

  Arianne forced her spine straight, her shoulders squared, and her chin lifted. “Of c-c-course.”

  He nodded. “I’ll take the lead. Grab onto the back of my shirt if you need support.”

  She was equal parts grateful for the offer and determined not to accept it. Everyone always thought she was too weak, too soft. She had spent every day of the last ten years, since her father disappeared and she had to take his place on the throne, proving that she was just as strong and tough as he had been. She had learned to show no weakness.

  That she had let this stranger, this soldier see her even shiver was too much.

  She would not let him see more.

  Digging deep, she fell into step behind him as he forged his way up the mountain. Every several steps he would glance back over his shoulder, just barely. Just enough to make sure she was still there.

  Whether he was making sure she was okay or that she had not run off, Arianne didn’t know. Nor, at this point, did she care. If she had the inclination to flee, she could have done so a thousand times before, in a thousand better situations. She could no longer focus on anything but forward.

  He scrambled up one particularly steep stretch, then turned back to help her.

  “It’s here.” He reached down. “Just over this ledge.”

  Arianne shunned his help, instead forcing her frozen fingers to grip the stone and her frozen legs to make the climb. It took more effort than she wished, but she made it.

  In preparation for the journey, she had opted for an easy-to-move-in sweater over a much warmer, but bulkier cloak. Never had she regretted a decision more.

  “I will light a fire,” Tearloch said. “Why don’t you set out our dinner.”

  It was not a question.

  Arianne was grateful for the distraction of a task to accomplish. She carried both packs over to the flat area where they would make camp, then proceeded to pull out their dinner selection.

  Salted rabbit. A small pot of sweet potato stew. An array of hand pies, containing—if her nose identified them correctly—pheasant, some kind of ground meat, and a root vegetable medley.

  Considering the amount of energy they had exerted that day, Arianne decided they should have some of each. As she laid her selection out on a small blanket, the same one Tearloch had used for their lunch, he returned with an armful of small branches.

  He busied himself with breaking the branches into forearm-length pieces and piling them into the fire pit at the center of the site. When it was arranged to his liking, he held out his hand and concentrated. An instant later, a swirl of smoke rose out of the pile. Within moments, the entire bunch flickered with red-orange flame.

  Arianne felt a sharp pang of jealousy. She had once been able to wield such powers. All of her people could. And perhaps, if the confrontation with her sister went according to plan, they soon would be able to again.

  Rather than dwell on her jealousy, Arianne fell back on the teasing attitude that had become her way of dealing with the all-too-serious warrior.

  “Any humans within five miles will be able to smell the campfire.”

  He shrugged and held his hands closer to the heat.

  Since he did not seem inclined to leave his handiwork, Arianne grabbed a pair of hand pies and joined him next to the fire. The warmth of the flame washed over her face and it took all her self-control not to dive into it. She handed him a pie and then settled onto the ground as close to the heat as she could stand.

  She took a bite of her pie—a delicious mixture of carrots, onions, and purple potatoes—and could not hold back the groan of pleasure. Food in her stomach. Heat from the fire. Perhaps she truly was the spoiled weakling so many assumed her to be. One day of hard walking and cold weather and she was ready to curl up into a little ball.

  Tearloch rose and moved away, but she couldn’t bear to turn away from the fire long enough to see what he was doing. He returned shortly, the blanket containing the rest of their dinner cradled in his arms.

  He set the bundle down next to her and held up the empty sweet-meade bottle from their lunch. “I’ll get water.”

  As she hungrily devoured both her pie and the one he had left behind, she watched him walk to the lake’s edge and bend down to fill the bottle with icy mountain water.

  “It’s amazing,” she said as he returned to her side, “how much better a bit of warmth and food makes everything seem.”

  Just then, a bold breeze blew across the lake, whistling around their campfire and racing down her spine. Tearloch carefully moved the food to the ground and then held out the blanket in which it had been bundled.

  “Wrap this around your shoulders,” he said. “It will ward off the chill from behind.”

  Arianne accepted the blanket and braced herself for the seemingly inevitable. Why can’t you warm yourself? What’s wrong with your powers? What’s wrong with you?

  Tearloch sat next to her, nothing more than a thin linen shirt separating him from the elements, without so much as a shiver. But to her surprise, he did not ask the questions.

  The Moraine might have been a gray clan, sworn, like the Deachair, not to harm humans for magical gain, but they still had access to their full powers. They could still feed their magic with negative human emotion. Pain. Sadness. Grief. They could capitalize on the natural pain of mortal life.

  The Deachair could not.

  It had been so long since she could freely use her powers, Arianne had stopped even trying. What used to be habit now seemed a trick of memory.

  As she wrapped the blanket around herself, she felt out of place next to the fae warrior. She felt… weak. That was not a feeling she enjoyed.

  She reached instinctively for the fox pendant that hung from the chain around her neck. It had long ago become a kind of talisman, a touchstone that she could hold and feel when the world became too much. That reminded her that there was good in the world, and that if she only had patience and persistence, things would work out.

  Some days it was hard to maintain her optimism.

  “What is that?”

  His question tore her out of memory.

  “Oh, this?” She glanced down at it, as if having to reassure herself of what she held. “A lucky charm of sorts.”

  She held it out to the end of the chain for him to see. But he only seemed to be looking at her.

  He said simply, “The fox is the sign of the Moraine.”

  There was something in the way he said it, like it was an accusation, that had her stuffing it back beneath her shirt.

  “I know.”

  “Then why do you wear it?”

  She shrugged again. “Once I was lost,” she said. “It was a gift from the boy who found me.”

  He stared at her for what felt like an eternity. She expected him to say… something. Do something. Demand she remove the symbol of his clan, demand she
throw it in the lake, something.

  He pushed to his feet.

  “Do not sleep too close to the fire,” he said. “Though the warmth is tempting, it is also dangerous.”

  And with that he took his blanket to the opposite side of the clearing. Arianne watched through the flames as he unrolled the blanket, spread it on the ground, and then settled down on top of it. Body straight, eyes closed. He was asleep. Or at least pretending to be.

  Arianne was not certain what just happened. Had she offended him? Upset him?

  She couldn’t tell. Nor should she care. The morning would come sooner than she liked. And with it came problems far bigger than the differences between the Moraine and the Deachair.

  Tomorrow, she would face her sister. For the first time since the curse. For the first time since Callistra fled their home, taking with her their father’s sanity and their clan’s safety.

  Tomorrow, Arianne would try to make it all right.

  Tomorrow, she would need to be stronger than ever.

  Which meant that tonight she needed to sleep.

  Packing the remains of the dinner away, she made her own bed in the way Tearloch had. Rolling onto her side to face the fire, she pulled the extra blanket over her. As she drifted off to sleep, she swore she saw Tearloch facing her through the flames. Facing her, and watching her.

  Chapter 10

  Tearloch was already awake when the first rays of dawn crested in the valley. In truth, he had not slept much at all in the night.

  She still had the fox. Kept it and wore it.

  He had been shocked beyond belief to see the small silver charm clutched between her fingers. The shiny silver fox he had impulsively given her all those years ago.

  The moment the young princess walked through the palace doors, swept into the entry hall with all the brightness and energy of the sun, Tearloch had not been able to take his eyes off her. She was still a child—two or three years younger than he at least—but something within her called to him. As if the light in her pulled at the dark in him.

  He wanted to smile, to grin like the silly boy he had never been. But his father stood beside him, the Captain of the Royal Guard, rigidly on duty to protect the royal family. Even on a night of pure celebration.