C. E. Murphy - Wayfinder

Ioan nodded, features darkening with each argument. “But would he expect me to offer such information,” he began, and Aerin again interrupted.

“Better if I speak to him, or Dafydd does. He’ll want to hear nothing from you at all. Just work the scrying spell. That will be enough.”

Like Dafydd had, Ioan glanced to Lara for confirmation, but nodded before she responded. “You were wise as a youth, Aerin. I see that hasn’t changed.”

Aerin huffed dismissively, unwilling to accept the compliment. Lara hid a smile in her shoulder, though like the earlier one, it faded quickly. Old enmities would die hard, even if she succeeded in righting Annwn’s physical structure and returning land to the Unseelie peoples. Barren land, at that, in all likelihood: aeons under the sea would presumably render it lifeless, unable to be used as farmland for decades.

That was a bridge to cross when they came to it. Lara felt a silly surge of pride at the vernacular phrase, not one she could commonly use without her power twinging. But it, and she, was growing more comfortable with metaphorical language. In time she might well be able to simply turn the magic on and off.

Braith returned with a stoneworked pitcher of water and four cups, the latter of which Lara thought unexpectedly generous. Ioan, after all, had requested the water, and none of the other visitors were of her people. She might well have slighted them, and not one would be easily able to claim the insult was deliberate.

Maybe there was hope for Annwn’s future after all. Lara smiled her thanks as the Unseelie woman put the stoneware on the table. Braith frowned at her, at the others, and back at her. “The healer will never let me hear the end of it if he wears himself out. Make sure he drinks, and get him back to rest.”

Lara, bemused, watched her go, grateful she didn’t have to respond. Only when the door closed did she say, “I doubt casting spells is what she meant by resting.”

“I’m sure that neither is leaving by morning,” Ioan said, “but I intend to ride with you when you go.”

“One bridge at a time.” Lara carried the pitcher to him, eyeing its cool contents. “Do you need this poured in a basin?”

“The smaller the surface, the less magic is needed to draw an image. And the less ability the scried have to see the scrier’s surroundings. That may be advantageous. Aerin, you’ll be our voice?”

“I will.” Aerin took the jug from Lara and knelt before Ioan, pitcher uplifted in both hands. Lara fell back a step, wondering how long the Seelie warrior could hold a gallon or more of weight in such a fashion, but certain it was longer than she herself could. Ioan put his fingertips into the jug’s mouth, then drew his hand upward, a fountain of water following.

Lara’s headache spiked and she dropped onto the nearest bed, one hand splayed over her face. Ioan shot her a concerned look, but she shook her head, half watching him through her fingers. Dafydd sat beside her, concerned fingers light against her temple, and she murmured, “Migraine. My vision likes magic less and less. Maybe it’s not true enough.”

“Perhaps not.” Dafydd tugged her closer, giving her his chest to rest against, and she let her eyes close for a few moments as Ioan whispered words of enchantment. She could barely hear them, much less make out their meaning, but water splashed again and she risked a squint across the beds.

A tiny, fine figure of Emyr, riding horseback, rode above the jug. It was beautiful, like three-dimensional film caught in a loop: the horse never moved forward, only ran hard in place, silver king crouched low over its back. The faintest shadows suggested other riders nearby, but none of them resolved, the water too little to create more intricate images.

Emyr reined up and the picture shifted, no longer distant enough to see him as a rider. Only his head and shoulders appeared, barely taller than a hand span. His features were more pinched than usual, narrow mouth tight and darkness in colorless water’s eyes.

Only when he saw Aerin did he show a trace of relief. “So you live after all.”

Relief flushed Aerin’s face as well: she hadn’t liked the idea that Emyr would sacrifice her any more than Lara had. “We were in the Drowned Lands when you scried me, majesty,” she said. “Your magic and its … reacted badly. That no longer matters. We succeeded. Dafydd is with us, strong and well. The truthseeker would have you hold off any strike against the Unseelie city for another full day, as was agreed.”

Emyr’s familiar sneer stretched the scrying. “Would she. But what of Hafgan? Has he been released from the killing sea as well?”

“He has.” Aerin kept her voice steady, though her hands tensed around the jug. “And has gone his separate way from us. You may well see him before we do.”

A knife-sharp smile cut across Emyr’s mouth. “I most sincerely hope I do.”

Chills shattered down Lara’s spine, discomfort born, for once, from the honesty in the Seelie king’s voice. “Destroying Hafgan won’t help your cause, Emyr.”

His attention shifted her way, though Lara wasn’t at all certain he could see her. “You have very little understanding of my cause, Truthseeker. Do not presume to judge.” He nodded once, sharply—at Aerin, Lara thought, not at herself—and then the watery simulacrum dropped back into the jug with a splash.

Ioan flinched, visibly not expecting the magic to be cut off from the other end, but Aerin’s steady grip never wavered. She unfolded from the floor, carrying the jug to the table, and filled the cups Braith had brought. Only when they were delivered and half drunk did she say, “I think any hope of his hand remaining stayed is past, Truthseeker. We would be best off leaving now.”

“Ioan’s supposed to take it easy,” Lara protested, though even she thought it sounded weak. “I don’t know what happens if a healing is pushed too far. Can it just unravel?”

“No. I’ll be well enough.” Ioan stood, a little pale with his boldness, and looked to Dafydd. “We’re his sons. If anyone can make him see reason, it should be us.” Dissonance clamored through the claim, as if his desire was less strong than his certainty in being correct. “We ride tonight.”

Soldiers of old, Lara had read, learned to sleep anywhere they could, even in the saddle. No one would mistake her for a soldier, but between Aerin’s enchantment to keep her on horseback and the long hours since her last rest, she found herself in camaraderie with those old warriors. Her head bounced against Dafydd’s shoulder, disturbing her occasionally, but not nearly enough to fully waken her until Dafydd murmured, “We’re here.”

Her head snapped up, physical reaction quicker than her mind. “Where’s here? Oh.” The granite-ensconced Unseelie citadel spread out before them. Never bustling, it seemed emptier than ever now, their horses’ hooves cracking loud against the stone floors and the echoes rising unhindered toward the distant ceiling. Lara massaged the back of her neck and let her forehead drop against Dafydd’s shoulder again. “That was fast.”

“Hopefully fast enough. It was almost dawn when we entered the passageway. I’d have thought Emyr would be here by now.”

“He’ll be on the crevasse banks,” Lara said absently. “The Unseelie army will have followed him from the plains they were fighting on, to keep the fight outside the city. Taking the city is like fighting at Thermopylae. As long as they can keep the bulk of the army occupied, the city entrance can be guarded by a handful of people.” She blinked up before she was finished, astonished at herself, and Dafydd turned to give her a look of surprised admiration.