So she had made herself small and flown up to crouch on the rooftop, straining to hear Martin’s conversation with the two strange faeries as they stood on the street below. She had caught only the occasional word, but she could tell they were no less wary than he was, and not inclined to speak freely. Were they still under the Empress’s power, and afraid that she would punish them if they disobeyed? Or were they like Martin, free but trying to remain neutral as long as they could?
Not that it mattered now. Martin had returned, and the other faeries were gone.
‘It’s getting late.’ Martin glanced up at the sky, where a wan half-moon was creeping out between the clouds. ‘But there’s a theatre a few streets over, and they’ve got a performance of My Fair Lady starting in half an hour.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘Come with me.’
Rhosmari hesitated. It had been another long, worry-filled day, and she could not help being tempted by the distraction. But after paying for food, transportation, and two nights’ lodging, her money was dwindling at an alarming rate.
As usual, Martin anticipated her objections. ‘I met the stage manager earlier,’ he said. ‘He used to work with Lyn and Toby. All I have to do is stop by the back door and pick up our free tickets, so…’
He wiggled his fingers at her, and with a reluctant smile, Rhosmari took his hand.
‘Here you are,’ said Martin, handing Rhosmari her ticket as he rejoined her outside the theatre. ‘Shall we?’
Together they joined the queue with the human theatregoers. As they neared the entrance, Rhosmari was glad to see a pair of humans holding the doors open – it was a clear invitation, and made it easy for even a faery to go in. At Martin’s direction she gave one of them her ticket, and was perplexed when he ripped it in two and handed part of it back to her. Perhaps he would expect her to give him the other half on her way out, she thought, and tucked the torn card into her pocket.
They stepped through the doorway into a small, musty-smelling lobby. The place was full of humans, milling about and chatting about finances and the weather. But faeries did not make idle conversation, so she and Martin waited in silence until the inner doors opened and they could go in.
‘This way,’ said Martin, glancing over his shoulder as he ushered her to a seat on the far side. At first Rhosmari was disappointed that they were so far away – everyone else seemed to be sitting closer to the stage. But when the lights dimmed and music swelled unexpectedly in the darkness, Rhosmari caught her breath. She had expected a story in words, but not one in melody as well, and it was all she could do to keep from squeezing Martin’s arm in delight.
At first the actors seemed self-conscious, their speech stilted and their gestures artificial. But the more she focused on them, the more naturally they behaved, and when they burst into song and began to dance, Rhosmari’s heart soared with pride. She had been almost afraid to go near humans after what her mother had told her, but surely her grandfather’s death must have been an accident, or at least an aberration? Watching these gloriously creative beings, sharing with them in the joy of storytelling and song, it was hard to sympathise with Lady Celyn’s mistrust of humans – let alone the Empress’s hatred of them.
Yet the play itself puzzled her. Why were these two older men trying to make the young heroine into a different sort of person than she was? Why was she working so hard to behave like a haughty lady, instead of remaining her simple, warm-hearted self? She was still puzzling over it when the curtains closed on the first part of the story, and everyone filed out of the theatre while they waited for the second half to begin.
‘What do you think?’ Martin asked.
‘The music is wonderful,’ said Rhosmari, ‘and I like the girl – Eliza. But I don’t understand why those men want to change the way she speaks, just so they can trick other people into believing that she’s wealthy instead of poor. It seems dishonest, and how is it going to help her?’
‘You don’t understand humans,’ Martin told her. ‘It’s not just the cleverness of the trick that matters, or even the wager they’re both hoping to win. It’s that by passing a flower-seller off as a duchess, they’re challenging the very assumptions that cause humans to judge and despise each other.’
‘But that makes no sense,’ said Rhosmari. ‘Why would anyone despise Eliza? She hasn’t done anything wrong.’
Martin shrugged. ‘Humans make judgments based on all kinds of foolish things. The way other humans speak, the clothes they wear, the colour of their skin…but you must know that already. Looking as you do, you could hardly have gone far in this world without meeting someone who thinks less of you because of it.’
Looking as you do. Was he referring to the cloak she had left behind in Cardiff? But no – he had said more—
Her gaze drifted towards one of the mirrors on the wall. Reflected there she saw the dark ripples of her hair, clasped behind her neck and frizzed a little with neglect. She saw her brown-gold complexion, arched nostrils and generous lips – all the features she had inherited from her mother, the most beautiful and highly respected woman in all the Green Isles.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said flatly.
‘Oh, I agree,’ said Martin. ‘But for centuries humans have fought, oppressed, and even killed each other on account of such differences. So when you think about—’ He stopped, frowning. ‘What’s wrong?’
Rhosmari stood frozen, no longer staring at her reflection but past it, into memory. Why is it the right time for Fioled to go to the mainland, but not for me? she had asked, and her mother had replied, Because Fioled is not my daughter.
Until now she had thought Lady Celyn was saying that her business was to protect her only child, not to tell other people what they should do with their children. But now Rhosmari understood what she had really meant: that no daughter of Lady Celyn’s would ever be safe in the human world, any more than Celyn’s father had been. Killed by the humans…and I will not allow my only daughter to share his fate.
So that was why Rhosmari’s grandfather had died? Not because of anything he had done, but because of the way he looked?
Sickness scorched Rhosmari’s throat. All at once the thought of staying in this place, among these people – these humans – was unbearable. Ignoring Martin’s protest, she plunged through the crowd to the exit, and vanished out the door into the night.
When Martin found her, Rhosmari was sitting on a bench two streets away from the theatre, her knees huddled beneath her skirt and her collar turned up around her face. She did not look up as he approached.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘You’re going to miss the rest of the play.’
Rhosmari said nothing, only folded her arms closer to her chest as another group of humans strolled past. How could she explain herself to Martin, even if she wanted to? Her sense of injustice, of violation, of betrayal, went too deep for words. She was angry at her mother for not telling her exactly what humans were like, and she was angry at Martin for telling her. She was angry at humanity for being so cruel and ignorant, and she was angry at the part of her that still hoped, despite everything, that one particular human might be different…
‘Rhosmari,’ said Martin, ‘tell me what’s wrong.’ He reached out, but she shied away and he dropped his hand. ‘What can I do?’
She shook her head, wanting him to understand that this had nothing to do with him – but also wishing that he would leave her alone. If he pressed her any more she might lose her temper, and she did not want to add regret to the misery she felt already.
‘So even now, you find me unworthy of your trust.’ His voice was low and bitter. ‘For days I have travelled with you, helped you, watched over you day and night. What else must I do to prove myself in your eyes? You act appalled at human prejudice, but it seems to me that you judge your fellow faeries no less harshly.’
Rhosmari’s head jerked up. ‘That’s not true!’
‘Isn’t it? Then why have you never told me your history, as I
have told you mine? You force me to guess at where you came from, why you are here, what it is you want – and even when I play your little game, you refuse to tell me whether or not I have won.’
He paced in front of her, fists clenched. ‘Is it because I once served the Empress? I did not choose where to be born, nor to surrender myself to her power. Is it because I used a false ticket on the train? You may find it easy to be honest, coming from a Wyld that is prosperous and free. But I grew up on the streets of Brixton, and have had to struggle and bleed for everything I own.’
‘Martin, I—’ began Rhosmari, but at the same moment he winced and touched his ear.
‘We have to get out of here,’ he said, with a sharp glance at the darkened sky. Without waiting for a response, he seized Rhosmari by the shoulders, hauled her to her feet and gave her a shove. ‘Now!’
Rhosmari stumbled on the pavement and nearly fell. Martin caught her, but the moment he set her upright he grabbed her hand and started to run. He yanked her through a cluster of young humans who swore and made gestures at them as they raced by, then around a corner to a side street. Rhosmari tried to shake free of his grip, but his fingers had locked around her wrist like a manacle, and the only way to make it hurt less was to run faster.
‘Where…are we…going?’ she panted, but then Martin stopped so suddenly that she ran into him. Two dark-haired, near-identical faeries blocked the pavement a few steps ahead, with smiling mouths and eyes full of mockery and menace.
‘What a pleasant surprise,’ said the first Blackwing. ‘First the Empress sends us to hunt one faery, then another, and here we find both at once.’
‘Indeed it is,’ agreed his brother. ‘It almost makes up for all those days of eating carrion.’ He smacked his lips and laughed.
Martin pulled Rhosmari behind him. ‘Get ready to run,’ he whispered. Then he straightened up and faced the Blackwings. ‘How did you find us?’
The taller Blackwing’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Do you really want me to answer that question, Martin? Though it would be amusing to see what you would make of it if I did.’ His eyes slid to Rhosmari, glittering malice. ‘You chose the wrong companion, girl. This one is a coward, and his only loyalty is to himself.’
‘Your words are wasted, Corbin,’ Martin said. ‘She doesn’t trust me anyway.’ He dropped Rhosmari’s hand and stepped aside. ‘What if I offer you a bargain?’ he asked, pointing to her. ‘I’ll hand her over without a fight, as long as you let me go.’
Rhosmari recoiled – and found that her legs would no longer move. Fear constricted her lungs as she tried to struggle free, but Martin’s binding spell was too strong.
Now it was Corbin’s turn to laugh. ‘Do you see that, Byrne?’ he said to his brother. ‘He’s done half our work for us. Ah, Martin. Do you even know which side you are on any more?’ He spread his hands, magic rippling between them like a glowing chain. ‘But we serve the Empress, not our own pleasure…and we have had enough of your bargains.’ Then he whipped around, and flung the spell at Martin.
Martin leaped aside just in time. He darted behind Rhosmari, as though to use her as a shield. ‘Count to twenty,’ he whispered, with a touch that sent a shimmer of heat up her spine. ‘Then run.’
And with that he flashed into his bird shape, and launched himself straight at the Blackwings.
Small as he was, Rhosmari had never seen anything move so fast. Corbin flung up his hands an instant too late: in a red flash of magic Martin’s wing clipped the side of his head, and he collapsed to the pavement unconscious. The little bird zoomed around again, aiming for Byrne – but the other Blackwing was not so easily caught off guard. He fired off a spell that sheared past Martin’s wing and sent him spinning aside; then he transformed himself into a raven, and took off after him.
Martin fluttered upward, but his wingbeats looked uneven, and he was already losing speed. Byrne had nearly closed the distance between them when the two birds soared up over the rooftops, and were lost in the shadows of the night.
Rhosmari stood frozen on the pavement, the remaining Blackwing at her feet. Her chest ached, and her muscles felt like jelly – but she knew it would only be a few minutes before Corbin woke up again. She summoned all her reserves of magic, straining at her invisible bonds in a frantic attempt to break free.
Eighteen, whispered a voice in the back of her mind. Nineteen. Twenty…
And just like that, she could move again. Rhosmari took a step backwards, her gaze on Corbin’s motionless body. Then she whirled and fled.
The sensible thing for Rhosmari to do, perhaps, would have been to take what little money she had left and leave Birmingham at once. But she had no idea where to go next, or what to do when she got there. And if Martin ever managed to escape from the Blackwings, it would be difficult for him to find her again.
She could not abandon him like that. Not now that she understood what he had done for her.
Rhosmari had never tried to Leap anywhere since she came to the mainland, for nearly every place she went was unfamiliar, and the rest were too crowded with people. But now in desperation she pictured the little hotel where she had been staying for the past two nights, and threw herself towards it. Landing on the doorstep, she dashed up the stairs to her room, locked the door, closed the window, and cast an aversion charm that would discourage anyone but Martin from touching either. Then she switched off all the lights, made herself invisible, and waited.
For two hours she huddled atop the narrow bed, acutely aware of the noises around her – every footstep on the stair or voice in the corridor, every thump or cough from the rooms on either side. The rumble of traffic on the nearby road seemed ominous as thunder, and whenever a shadow flickered past her window, she jumped.
At last, sheer exhaustion caught up with her, and Rhosmari had sunk into a feverish doze when she heard a tap at the window. Abruptly awake, she flung back the curtain and found Martin’s tiny, heaving form crouched on the sill outside, one wing extended at an awkward angle. The feathers around his shoulder were clotted with blood.
Rhosmari slid the window open and gathered him in. She set the little bird down upon the edge of the bed, then stepped back as Martin transformed with a groan back into his faery self. He wore trousers but no shirt or jacket, and the wound on his shoulder was bleeding freely. Rhosmari clapped her hands to her mouth.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ said Martin in a faint, irritable voice. ‘I can’t heal myself, you know.’
‘I can’t heal you either,’ Rhosmari told him shakily. She had not seen so much blood since her father died, and its hot, metallic smell was making her queasy. But she had no talent for magical healing, even if she dared to try.
‘Water,’ Martin told her flatly, one hand pressed to his shoulder. ‘Soap. Bandages. Go.’
Rhosmari hurried to the tiny sink. Obeying Martin’s orders, she poured cupfuls of water over his shoulder and patted the wound with a soapy cloth until the worst of the mess was gone. Then she took the case off the pillow and tore it into strips to make a bandage. By the time she had wrapped the deep gash in several layers of cloth, the bleeding had slowed.
‘Good. Yes,’ said Martin, and then he eased himself onto his good side and lay still. Faeries usually appeared ageless, but the pain etched into his face made him look like a human of forty. Rhosmari pulled up a chair beside the bed.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ she whispered. ‘Byrne might have killed you.’
‘Ha,’ said Martin, though his laugh sounded feeble. ‘What else should I have done? Flown off and left you there?’
‘You could have.’ And for a few horrible moments, she had believed that he would. Not until the binding spell he had put on her dissolved had she realised it had all been a ruse to make the Blackwings think she was helpless…and that he had risked his own life to give her a chance to escape.
Martin’s eyes met hers, weary but unflinching. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t.’
Rhosmari looked
down at her hands, knotting and unknotting in her lap. ‘I…was wrong not to confide in you,’ she said. ‘I was worried that…’ She stopped and took a deep breath. ‘I was worried about a lot of things. But I think you have a right to know.’
Martin did not answer, only watched her with his heavy-lidded gaze. The blood was seeping through the bandages on his shoulder, staining the white cloth dark. She had to look away before she could go on, ‘You asked me about the Wyld I came from. Well, my home is a place we call the Gwerdonnau Llion, or the Green Isles of the Ocean…and my people are known as the Children of Rhys.’
seven
When Rhosmari had finished telling Martin her story, he was quiet so long that she feared he had fallen asleep. But then he said, ‘So your people have never known war. Not even the oldest ones?’
‘None that are still living,’ she replied. ‘The first generation of Rhys’s followers were warriors, but their chieftains had abused the gift of their true names by—’
‘Wait. They gave their names to these chieftains?’ Martin’s face contorted in disbelief. ‘How could anyone be so stupid?’
‘They did it out of loyalty,’ said Rhosmari defensively, though deep down she agreed with him. ‘In those days it was considered an insult, and an act of cowardice, for faeries not to give their true names when swearing fealty to their rulers. It was proof of their devotion, and of their faith in the good character of their lord or lady. But when the chieftains became greedy for power and began forcing their followers into battle after battle, that gift became a curse.’
‘Until this Rhys showed up with his Stone of Naming, and led your people to a magical land where their chieftains could no longer find them,’ said Martin. ‘How convenient. So what is it like, this Gwerdonnau Llion of yours? It sounds peaceful, but a little dull.’