“I wish I could live in Chrior,” Shea said, swiping at a few tears that had fallen on her cheeks. “It sounds like people are happier there.”
My throat burned, for that was a trip neither of us would be able to make. And I’d had much the same thought the day I’d returned to the Faerie Realm for the winter solstice—Fae were more content and at peace than humans because they coexisted with Nature instead of dominating it. The Realm across the Bloody Road was hallowed, a place where time felt slower, kinder; a place that provided a retreat, a refuge from the outside world. The people in the Warckum Territory believed in a promised land after death, but we didn’t have to because we already had our sanctuary. The threads of human religion, similar in all its forms, had never appealed to me before this moment. Now I understood that on this side of the Road, if death didn’t offer paradise, there was no paradise to be had.
“Let’s move on tomorrow,” I proposed, needing to divert my thoughts. “I’ve had enough of this city.”
“That’s something we can agree on.”
Shea shoveled forkfuls of food into her mouth, and I did the same, hardly tasting my meal. Unsure of the distance to Sheness, I decided we would have to get an early start. Though I didn’t say it, the loss of another day, while partly my fault, was eating at me. We needed to make up time.
“Anya,” Shea said, recapturing my attention. “I’ve been thinking. Some of the Fae here in the Home could cross the Road and reenter your homeland. You could use one of them to send a message—”
“No,” I interrupted. Shea’s eyebrows lifted, telling me I had responded too quickly and too strongly, and I tried to soften my reaction. “All that the Queen and my people want is for someone to find Zabriel, and I’m still capable of doing that. Sending a message would only complicate things.”
“For them or for you?”
“For Queen Ubiqua, who may already be ill.” I punctuated my words, hoping to discourage further questions. I didn’t want to go down this road; I didn’t want to hear my own justifications regarding my decision, because I knew they were weak. “And for my father, my friends.”
“Aaaand?” Shea twirled a hand in the air, drawing the word out, more perceptive than I had hoped she would be. “No more secrets, remember?”
I sighed. “There’s a young man, Davic, who would come after me if he knew.”
“And is he just any young man?”
“No.” My cheeks were in full bloom, not because I was confessing a relationship but because I was scared of how much that relationship might be influencing the issue. “We’re promised to each other. But he’s unfamiliar with the human world, and his first Crossing shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be because of a tragedy, or because he thinks he should be with me, protecting me, grieving with me. He wouldn’t see any of the good that’s out here, and it’s important that he does.”
“He doesn’t like humans?”
“Davic likes everyone.” I chuckled. “But he’s happy in Chrior. If he could choose, I think Crossings would be a thing of the past, and humans and Fae would stay on their respective sides of the Bloody Road. We’d coexist by pretending the other race is extinct. It would be the simplest solution, really, except that it’s not a solution at all—it doesn’t take into account long-term politics. The humans are constantly expanding their population and their land occupation, and we can’t ignore how that may affect our way of life. But that’s Davic—he lives in the moment, to be happy, to make other people happy. The problem is that the future comes at the same pace whether you prepare for it or not. That’s why I want him to learn to love what’s out here.”
“Is he supposed to be King or something? Since you’re the heir?”
I’d forgotten that Fi had let that information slip in Shea’s presence, but it wasn’t something I wanted to dwell on. “Not a king. He would have been a prince.” I automatically corrected the sentence in my mind: Davic would have been a perfect prince.
I looked away from her, and she quickly moved on to something else, perhaps sorry she’d pursued this line of inquiry.
“Fi told me about a young, handsome Constabulary who stopped by to see you,” she put forth, a mischievous smile curling her lips. “Are you sure he’s not the reason you’d rather Davic stay at home?”
“Certainly not!” Strangely, however, while the suggestion of another man in my life could have been upsetting, it instead offered a welcome sense of normalcy. Being teased by a friend over the tentative friendship I’d developed with a man who’d been good to me felt like a luxury, and I was relieved to have a lighter topic to dwell upon.
“No matter what Fi told you, Shea, Tom was simply nice enough to offer me a ride to the hospital for my follow-up appointment with Dr. Nye. There was nothing more to it.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told him you could take care of my wounds.” I leaned forward with a smirk. “Your encounter with that boy in Strong proves how much you like to play doctor.”
Despite my jab, she wasn’t through needling me.
“But did you go with him?”
“Yes, I mean, it did seem like a good idea.”
“And does Tom know you only used him as an escort?” Shea was so giddy that her body language almost suggested inebriation—she was leaning precariously sideways onto the table, grinning at me with twinkling eyes, her face radiant.
“Officer Matlock arranged a carriage, and that is all,” I insisted, standing and picking up my mug to obtain a refill. “Although he did say a thing or two about irresponsibility, a message perhaps better directed at someone else.”
Shea’s mouth fell open, and I wiggled my eyebrows at her before heading on my way to the buffet line.
“Exactly what does that mean?” she called after me.
I flipped my auburn hair over my shoulder, enjoying her consternation.
By the time I returned to our table, Shea had recovered and was picking at her food. After a few minutes, I realized she was softly singing. I tuned in my ears and heard, “Anya and Davic, will their love be true? Will they have children, maybe one or two....”
I decided it was best to ignore her.
* * *
Though we were up early in anticipation of our departure, a full house greeted us at breakfast the next morning. To our bewilderment, Fae were everywhere, some eating, some standing around and talking in groups, others darting in and out of the corridor that led to the sleeping rooms, fetching warm outdoor wear.
“What’s going on?” I asked an older man with badly mangled wings who was among those who shared our sleeping room. Though his appendages were still attached, he would never fly again.
He beamed, busily pulling his cloak around his shoulders.
“The Governor’s men made an announcement last night. They’re executing a Fae hunter today.”
My stomach dropped. I glanced at Shea, who stood perfectly still, looking as discomfited as I felt. The man hurried away from us to seek out his companions, but his smile lingered in my mind, for it had been crazed with jubilation. He was hungry for retribution, even while his warped and shrunken wings maintained his connection to Nature and magic. In some ways, he’d been lucky, but that didn’t stop him from being vindictive.
I tried not to feel the way he did, for his lust for revenge was not in line with Queen Ubiqua’s teachings. It wasn’t right to view a person’s death as cause for celebration, no matter what he or she had done. In the Faerie Realm, the value we placed on life dictated that we never destroy it out of fear, anger, or hate. The worst punishment that could be imposed in our world was banishment. And yet the twinge that remained in my shoulder blades triggered an ugliness in me that ran counter to my aunt’s beliefs. I wanted to see this hunter suffer, too. Damn my conscience; I wanted a reckoning.
We ate our breakfast, a
nd I downed a cup of hot cider, all the while feeling more bloodthirsty than I ever had in my life. I didn’t know execution procedures in Tairmor, but however they would dispatch the guilty party, I hoped it would be as painful as having bone sawed through; as painful as hearing the thud, thud, thud of a halberd and watching the essence of my being float away; as painful as knowing that no warm welcome waited in the future for me because I would never be going home.
Though Shea looked a bit sickly, she joined me in picking up snatches of conversation among the other residents of the Home, all of whom were palpably excited. Everyone wanted to know who was dying today, and the prevailing viewpoint was that the execution was right—it was necessary. The Governor was driving an evil from the world. As I considered this, some part of me felt incredibly sad; my kinsmen had lost the purest sense of what it meant to be Fae...and considering my inner exultation, maybe so had I.
Only Fi was subdued—Fi with her intact wings and unscarred body making her the sole resident of the Fae-mily Home who had not suffered injury at human hands. She sat in the entry hall at the admissions podium, spotlighted by the morning sunlight that sifted through a high window to land perfectly around her body. Her legs were crossed on the seat of her chair, her head hanging forward, her hands limp in her lap. It was in the winter sun’s disposition to bring false warmth to a cold scene.
Though it was questionably ethical, Shea took her pack to the buffet table to gather food for the road in accordance with our plan to leave Tairmor that day. While my friend was thus engaged, I went to Fi and put a hand on the podium to announce my presence.
“What is it?” I asked, startling her. She raised her head, and I could tell she hadn’t slept much.
“You’ve heard the news?”
I nodded and leaned against the lectern, guilt creeping inside me. Fi was a better person than I was. She was capable of feeling compassion for someone who deserved death. The evidence covered her face.
“I can’t blame any of them,” she continued, gesturing weakly to the chattering crowd in the dining hall. “They’ve all suffered more than I have. How can I judge them? But I know they won’t be merry when the day is out. They’ll gather for dinner in those exact same seats, but they won’t be smiling and laughing anymore. They’ll be weighed down by the knowledge that watching an evil person die didn’t erase the evil that person did in life. All these Fae I want to protect think they’re about to be fixed, but they’re not. Taking satisfaction in another person’s death doesn’t heal you—it diminishes you. They’ll be left with more holes inside than ever.”
“But they’ll know the law cares about what happened to them,” I said, not wanting to listen to her message, so similar to something my aunt might have said. “Retribution isn’t evil. Everything in Nature is about requital and balance. Aren’t we—they—entitled to some of that fairness?”
“Tell me the last time misfortune struck at Nature’s hand and you thought it was fair.”
I didn’t answer, feeling chastised, and Fi expounded upon her philosophy.
“I don’t pretend to understand Nature’s concept of balance because it doesn’t stop to consider ours. All I know is that it’s wiser and more powerful than us, and taking matters into our own hands can only momentarily make us feel better. It can’t heal us, and it won’t bring peace to anyone. There are other ways to show the wounded that they aren’t forgotten.”
As her message sank in, I took a step back, trying to suppress my conscience. She was but one voice among many, a voice I didn’t want to hear anymore. Besides, the decision didn’t lie with me; it had been made by the Governor, who surely understood such matters better than I. It was up to him to determine right from wrong in the Territory.
Turning away from Fi, I sought out Shea, and the two of us left the shelter with the other residents of the Home, intending to part company when we neared the “execution plank,” as the crowd was calling it. The rolling hills of the city took us closer to the gorge, and river spray made the day colder, but not unbearably so. Shea was careful to wear her hood while we traversed the streets, though with all the hustle and bustle it would have been an extraordinary feat for someone to identify her.
The execution had been turned into a spectacle at the very least; in truth it was almost a faire, with impromptu stands erected to sell food and trinkets. Momentarily caught up in the atmosphere, we stopped to examine some of the wares, and I was tempted to purchase a necklace of stained glass in the shape of Faerie wings. The colors were eerily similar to what my own wings had been, and the proceeds went to various Fae aid groups. Before I could make up my mind, my attention was drawn to the next stand down, where people were gathered in strident debate—the owner claimed to sell baubles and jewelry infused with Fae magic. I rolled my eyes at the notion. If my body, which had been born a vessel for magic, couldn’t retain its birthright, I doubted the greatest alchemist in Warckum, or the world for that matter, could coax a rock into accomplishing what I couldn’t. Shea and I approached the stand anyway, curious about his salesmanship.
Most of the merchandise looked like it had been found in the rubbish bin of a mediocre jeweler. I turned to Shea, intending to make a joke, only to find her fingering a disconcertingly familiar item. Indeed, her other hand was clutching the small, upside-down looking glass pendant her father had given her, which rested on her sternum, cradled by its chain. I knew without checking that the pendants could have been twins.
“Made by a real scientist, these were,” hawked the proprietor, who had sneaked up beside us. He flashed a gap-toothed grin, eager to make a sale. “A sorcerer. Buy one and be able to tame magic creatures, not to mention hoodwink the people around you. Your worst enemy could be your best friend! These rings over here will give you luck. The pendants are for protection, and I’ll wager the condemned wishes he had one today.”
With a tight smile, Shea shook her head and turned away.
“If it’s anything like my father’s necklace,” she confided, “then it doesn’t work very well, at least on Sepulchres.”
I laughed. “Magic that lets you hoodwink people? It’s magic that makes it impossible for Fae to tell a lie. Reconcile that for me.”
We moved away from the crowd on the logic that with so many gathered for the execution, we could cross the city uninhibited and make an easy exit from Tairmor. As we walked, my eyes drifted to the gorge, and I realized that “execution plank” was a literal term—made of wood and supported by sturdily built scaffolding, a beam extended well over the ravine carved by the river. Despite my earlier vindictiveness, the prospect of someone being forced to jump to his or her death upon the rocks and frothing water far below was sobering, and I was glad we weren’t staying to watch. At a safe but prime viewing distance from the scaffold, I noted a raised and roofed seating box through which well-dressed government officials and uniformed guards were entering, a group that included Luka Ivanova, with a beautiful woman at his side; some other dignitaries; and, most notably, a stalwart and imperial old man in decorated military garb: Governor Wolfram Ivanova.
I stopped, mesmerized, Shea coming to a confused halt a few paces in front of me, as I examined the Governor and tried to reconcile the things I knew about him with the man before me. He was Ubiqua’s father-in-law, Zabriel’s grandfather, a man who had lost his eldest son to the violent end of a love story. He supported Faerie rights, yet ironically seemed oblivious to the abductions of my people.
What captivated me most, however, were his eyes. My vision was still sharper than the typical human’s, so even from this distance, I recognized those warm, trust-inspiring bister eyes—they were the same as Zabriel’s. I knew something else, as well: no one who shared blood with my compassionate cousin could possibly be ignoble. I was so fascinated that I might have stared unceasingly had Shea’s hand not wrapped around my wrist in a vice grip. With a nod of her head, she indicated where she want
ed me to look.
I shifted my attention to the prisoner, a bulky, black-haired man in shackles who stood upon the scaffolding. Then I noticed a second person in shackles being pulled across the half circle that separated the crowd from the abyss. I recognized his keeper before I identified the scruffy young man—Hastings was supporting a weak-legged Spex, holding him up by the arms. They looked curiously intimate, like parent and child, but I knew protecting Spex was a notion as foreign to Hastings as having hair on his head. The man knew nothing about kindness.
Ignoring the guards who stood on each side of him, the prisoner turned toward Hastings and Spex, slowly shaking his head, his mouth forming the word no. It was clear that we were indeed seeing a father and son, though Hastings was not a member of the pair. Shea put the pieces together at the same time I did; the resemblance between Spex and the man about to be executed was distinct. The condemned was a Faerie-hunter, arrested and convicted, and his son had likely been implicated as the spotter, his talents for some reason entrusted to Hastings in Oaray. Now it appeared the young man was going to be taught a horrific lesson. He would be forced to watch his father die. But why?
“Oh, God,” Shea breathed, her cold fingers gripping me tighter. “What if it’s because of the information Spex gave us? Hastings sent Sepulchres into the Fere after us, but what if that wasn’t enough for him? What if he wants Spex to suffer, too?”
She clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes stricken. Words now muffled, she squeaked, “Dear God, Anya, are we responsible for this?”