C. E. Murphy - Wayfinder

Braith’s gaze slipped from Lara to the two mounted Seelie behind her. Lara checked the impulse to turn and investigate them herself, feeling that doing so would undermine her own authority. Authority she’d taken on herself and, for that reason most particularly, couldn’t afford to erode. Aerin had seen her take up that mantle earlier and was likely to heed it, but Dafydd, a prince in his own right, might well choose to act outside the boundaries Lara outlined.

But he said nothing, and Braith, studying him, evidently saw no threat or disregard for Lara’s demands. After a long while she nodded, attention back on Lara. “All right. I’ll bring you to the healers.”

Even within the village borders, Lara’s vision flickered and danced uncomfortably. She accepted Dafydd’s hand up to horseback again, more comfortable riding with her eyes closed than struggling against the glamour that winked small houses and streets in and out of visibility. Neither of the citadels had affected her so badly, but neither of the citadels, she imagined, had such cause to hide. Truth jangled through that thought, wearying even in itself.

What glimpses she got when she dared peek through tangled lashes were of a comfortable little township, homes close together with fields surrounding them. The streets were cobbled, instead of the hard-packed earth that made up the roadways they’d followed through the valley. Their horses clopped over the changed texture with no concern, their footing as sure as ever. Lara, headache throbbing with every hoofbeat, wondered if anything at all disturbed the pace of beasts capable of traversing a half-dozen steps with each stride.

More than a few curious people looked out of windows or came out of doors to watch the little processional. Curious and often bitter, though Lara had the sense that it was the elders whose countenances bore the latter emotion. Others looked as though they’d never seen anything like Lara and the two Seelie, and whether their gazes lingered longest on her, or on their eternal enemies, she couldn’t say. They weren’t friendly, though. Hostility and caution burned in their stances, and after a minute or two Lara was happier to close her eyes against their stares, and ride unrecognizing of silent assault.

“The healer’s hall.” Braith spoke with portence, though the hall, when Lara opened her eyes, looked very much like the other small tidy homes she’d caught sight of. Neither it nor its immediate surrounds bobbed and weaved the way most of the village did, though the torches hung outside its door developed auras, sign of a worsening headache. Still, the stability of the house itself was gratifying, and Lara trusted her feet as she slid off the horse to the ground.

Dafydd put an arm around her waist a moment later, his voice low with concern. “Are you well?”

“Not really.” Lara managed a wan smile that turned to an actual quiet laugh at Dafydd’s dismay. “I’ll manage. These magic-induced migraines seem to go as fast as they come. I’ll be okay once we’re out of here.”

He nodded and released her as they fell in behind Braith, who tapped twice on the hall’s wooden door, then opened the door, gesturing Lara’s party to follow her.

It was a hall, or at least a long single room warmed by a small hearth-bound fire. An apothecary’s table, littered with pestles and vials, sat fully on the other side of the room, directly across from the fire. Empty basins littered with drying rags stood at the far end, and half a dozen fur-covered beds, all with backless chairs beside them, were distributed down the room’s length. Only one was occupied. Ioan sat on its edge rather than ensconced under covers. He glanced up and came to his feet in one motion. “Lara. You made it. You— Dafydd. ”

The second name was laden with complicated emotion. Regret, Lara thought: regret and relief and surprise. Ioan swayed where he stood, watching Dafydd down the length of the room until Lara felt as if she should retreat, leaving the brothers to their first meeting for the first time in more years than she could name. “You look well,” Ioan finally scraped out, and Dafydd gave a short hard laugh.

“I’m not sure I can say the same about you. You look … different. Lara told me what you’d done, but …”

But it was no doubt too little preparation for seeing a brother, once a near mirror image, changed into someone else entirely. It would be possible to do at home, Lara thought, with hair and skin dye, and with careful weight management, though Ioan ap Annwn was actually shorter than he’d once been, height transformed to Unseelie breadth. On Earth, that would be impossible, an illusion if managed at all. Here it was all truth, willpower manifesting over physicality in ways only magic could explain.

Ioan clenched his fists, gaze dropping before he forced it up again. “It’s easier for me,” he said after a moment. “The Seelie court changes less than I have. You are … much as I remember you. And Lara has succeeded. In all things?”

The question intimated something none of them wanted to say in front of Braith: that Ioan was not Hafgan, though he was king of the Unseelie people. Unexpectedly, Dafydd looked to Lara for a response. Her eyebrows crawled upward and she narrowly avoided passing the question on to Aerin. Braith’s silent presence stopped her: Lara was the nominal leader of their little group, and answers should fall to her. “In all things. I can tell you more later, but if you’re well enough, we need you to scry Emyr immediately. There were … complications, and Aerin wasn’t able to report to him tonight. I’m concerned about the ramifications, if he thinks she’s injured or dead.”

Ioan’s chin lifted. He looked well: there were no signs of his injuries, not even a paleness that spoke to blood loss. The Unseelie healers had done a good job, and Lara wished she’d been able to watch that magic. It might have had a true song to it, the putting right of things broken.

It had, though, left residual marks around him: like so much in the Unseelie village, there were flutters of hard-to-see magics that sparked migraine pulses when he moved. Normal healing of severe injuries took weeks, even months. It was possible forcing rapidity on that healing made it a little less true than letting time do its job would. Lara pressed a hand to her shoulder, testing it for pain, then glanced at it and at Aerin, looking for similar marks that bespoke fast healing had been performed on them.

No new auras or waves rolled over her, but the injuries had been comparatively minor next to Ioan’s, and it had been hours or longer since both healings had been accomplished. She would know next time to look promptly, curiosity driving her more than anything else.

She’d been silent barely the length of a breath, considering all those things, but Ioan took her silence as an excuse to speak. “Braith, will you bring water? I have duties to administer to, and a thirst upon me.”

Braith cast him a dubious look, but nodded and slipped out. Ioan sat again, a wry cant coming over suddenly tired features. “Healers always say not to exert yourself.”

“And patients rarely listen.” Lara smiled, but it faded as she broke away from the others to sit on a bed across from the Unseelie prince. “Ioan, we did bring Hafgan out of the Drowned Lands, but he disappeared as soon as we got to shore. I don’t know if Emyr should be told—”

“It’s trouble either way.” Dafydd joined her, Aerin following more reluctantly. “If he’s told, he’ll see a threat. If he’s not …”

“We’re traitors all,” Aerin said dourly. “Tell him. He already sees the threat and no doubt rides on your city as we speak. Hafgan’s return may heighten his eagerness, but it’ll change nothing else. And if we don’t tell him, it’s our own necks beneath the sword.”