that a city of the Wisht?"
"It is," said Dapplegrim. "Last time I came this way that place was called Inuta Aldra. I know not if it is the city we want, but it is a seclude of the Wisht-Folk. It will be as good a place to start as any."
They rode down the thin trail out of the pass and towards the wooded lands beneath them.
-oOo-
The day and night that followed was barely a day and night at all. They were in the Twilight Lands now. The trees were stunted and twisted, and their branches wove together so tightly that when the wind rose the whole of the woods rattled like bones clattering. The air would have been as black as marl under the trees if it weren't for their sparse, small leaves. The canopy seemed more skeletal than living.
About mid-morning of the next day Dapplegrim flexed his muscles and said, "That goat did me some good. I think I'd like a gallop—if you think you can hold on?"
"Alright," said Caewen. "I'm sure I can." Riding had become easier with the practise.
"Hold tight and knuckle your fingers fast about the saddle. I can run faster than any horse you've ever dreamt of." He smiled at her, sharply, then sprang forward with a snort.
Suddenly, the world was a blur, the trees were no longer gnurled and moss-bearded shapes, but mere ghosts passing in the grey light. The air tore at Caewen’s skin and chewed coldly at her hair. Below her knees she could see Dapplegrim’s hooves gouging the earth. They pounded onwards. The landscape passed by and it seemed to Caewen that they went so fast that surely they would fly straight up into the air soon. Dapplegrim leapt over a small river, and rode over boggy ground as if it were as solid as rock, and then, when Caewen felt that her numb fingers could not hold a moment longer the world ceased its headlong rush.
Dizzied, guts wound into a burl of yarn, Caewen wanted to slip from the saddle and sit on the ground clutching her head, but she didn’t. She held on and clenched her teeth.
Dapplegrim spoke. "We arrive. Inuta Aldra, the city of vines and mists."
And it was. Peaked roofs climbed a hill and towers crested it, but the walls of the houses seemed to be made of twisted branches of a white tree something like a willow, and the town walls were woven from vines, thick and black, like iron cables. Tatters of cloud flagged the city, twining between roofs and drifting on the air. Red-orange lights fluttered in the rise and fall of winds.
"City of the Wisht-Folk," said Caewen.
"Well... more of a town really. Farther north and east and deeper in the Twilight Lands are the great cities of the Wisht: Lofty Olego Davs, Tormikt of the Golden Leaves, Tols Imona, the Kariska Towers. This town before us, Inuta Aldra, is the seat of a low queen."
"You seem to know an awful lot about the Twilight Realms."
Dapplegrim craned his neck around and looked at Caewen. In the darkening air she could see the strong light in his eyes—the pinpoint redness that mixed in his pupils like blood in water.
Caewen found herself involuntarily leaning away from the face. "It was only an observation. There’s no need to look like you’re going to bite my head off." Literally, in Dapplegrim’s case. He said nothing, so she added, "Fine. Be that way. Let us ride to the city then."
He snorted. "More of a town."
They trotted downhill, among trees and then onto a road that cut a broad hatcheting of black earth through the green of grass and moss. The two of them did not remain unnoticed for long. Horns sounded on the walls of Inuta Aldra as they approached. Along the battlements the tips of spears gleamed in the twilit air like stalks of silvery wheat. Before Caewen and her peculiar horse were within two bowshots of the woven-wood ramparts a gate opened and light spilled out. So too did a column of Wisht-Folk.
They were beautiful.
Deathly, ghostly, wraithlike... and beautiful. Their skin was pearl, their hair was all the temperate shades of midnight and in their eyes rode silver stars. The nearer they drew, the more aware Caewen was of their delicateness too. Some seemed too light to put a foot solidly to earth and others too thin-boned to stand against the weakest winter breeze. Some were draped with mail of a fine mesh and others carried swords the colour of icicles or spears that tapered to needle-points... and yet... even so... Caewen thought to herself that this was a people who would not have fared well in war. They seemed too delicately put-together. Perhaps it was unsurprising that they had snuck away from their old mistress of the north and hidden themselves under new rulership in quiet valleys.
Although Dapplegrim had said that the Wisht could defend themselves with arts of sorcery, perhaps this thing that was hunting them was a better sorcerer or immune to their arts/ Perhaps they did need a bold hero of strong flesh to fight for them? It seemed a pity to Caewen that they’d got her instead.
The Wisht-Folk gathered around and Caewen had the unsettling feeling that their silvery fox-eyes were assessing her, making note of her features or sizing her up and down, the way a buyer examines an oxen.
"I..." said Caewen, "I have come..."
One of the more elegant men stepped towards her then and reached out a thin and ivory-skinned hand. "We welcome you O mortal child of blood and flesh and soul. We welcome you to our palace in the mists. Come drink with us and dine in halls that know no mortal pain, where death does not visit and sickness never treads." He was a war-leader or lord perhaps, judging from the spirals of red gold on his armour. He had been focused entirely on her, with hand outstretched, but when he looked at Dapplegrim, his expression changed—first to confusion, then suspicion, then fear. They all moved away as one, a silver tide chased out to sea—spears lowered and bows drew taut. The noise of the bowstrings tightening filled the air with menace.
"He will not harm you," said Caewen, quickly. "Will you, Dapplegrim?"
"Whinny," said Dapplegrim, unconvincingly.
The spears lowered a little. The bows were relaxed. But the Wisht-Folk were still wary and kept their distance. "You may come with us," said the lord, "and you may walk the halls of the deathless light, sup with Queen Velmand Ina, but that thing you ride, that—horse—must keep itself without the walls of fair Inuta Aldra. Its kind is not welcome. We do not truck with demons."
Before Dapplegrim could say or do anything Caewen said, "Very well." She swung a leg off the saddle and alighted, then patted Dapplegrim’s neck. At a whisper she said, "You’ll be fine here. I’ll be back once I’ve met the Queen I suppose and I need to find out what's going on here before we can do anything about it."
"Neigh," said Dapplegrim. He did not look happy with her.
The Wisht-Folk crowded around Caewen as they walked through the city gates. She cast a look over her shoulder and saw Dapplegrim standing beside the black dirt road watching her go.
The amber light that swelled in the gateway filled up the town and flickered in the streets, though it was impossible to see exactly where it came from. Either it was everywhere or the fires were well hidden behind stone and twisted branches to give that illusion.
They led Caewen to a towering hall at the brow of the hill. On entering the building she was not taken directly to the Queen, but instead she was told, without ceremony, "There will be a banquet." And then someone took her arm and dragged her through a doorway and into a thin corridor. It took Caewen a moment to realise that a young woman had her arm. The Wisht woman was deerlike in her features and movement, and she stepped with a wildness. Her eyes were liquid, soft and feral. She smiled slyly, shooting sideways glances at Caewen as they walked, and giggling, though throughout she said nothing.
They arrived at a room where there were six more of the Wisht maids. They moved nearer to Caewen, eyed her, and walked around her. Again, it felt like an appraisal. One of them reached out and stroked Caewen’s hair and the others pressed closer still. Caewen realised with a quiet shock that they were trying to remove her clothing. She had heard of rich ladies being dressed by their serving girls, and supposed that this was what the Wisht meant to do, but their attempts seemed strange, too eager and even slightly aggressive. Although Cae
wen co-operated, she apparently did not do so quickly enough, and one of the Wisht gave up struggling with a knotted chord and tore at Caewen’s blouse. The others began pulling and ripping too. Wild laughter followed and most of Caewen’s clothing was removed in pieces.
Then, one of the Wisht began combing Caewen’s hair, while two others now rubbed her shoulders with poultices that smelled woodsy and sweet. This continued for a time and Caewen, naked, now shivered from the cold. It was uncomfortable but not very worrying. Despite this she did catch herself glancing now and again at the bronze sword, which was lying where it had been dropped on the floor.
Then one of the Wisht touched Caewen in a way that she felt wasn’t quite right for a woman to do to a woman—but she took it for a mild mistake. When the woman did the same again, and other hands moved with renewed aggression, Caewen jumped back, yelled at them, and broke a few more steps away. Grabbing what was left of her dress, she hid behind it.
"No. That’s enough."
They all advanced a step or two, giggling and smiling, saying nothing.
"No," said Caewen. "I want some clothing. Now!"
This was a game to them. Although one stamped her foot and another pouted, it took only a little more forcefulness on Caewen's part to make the Wisht to shrug and give up.
Now, one of them spoke for the first