C.E. Murphy - Truthseeker

Gratitude, though, was mixed with pique. She was almost certain she’d been saddled with Dafydd because none of the elfin riders were willing to sully themselves by riding with a human, and that the one who’d offered up her horse had chosen discomfort over contamination. Lara would have been offended, if the arrangements hadn’t granted her the chance to mutter, “I think you’d better fill in the blanks,” at Dafydd as they rode. “Starting with who are the Unseelie, why are they coming to war, why you called Merrick your brother when he’s not, and why it didn’t sound like a lie.”

“Because he is,” Dafydd answered softly, and there was no discordance in his voice, though there’d been none in his father’s, either, when he’d disavowed Merrick ap Annwn as his son. “I have a blood brother, Ioan ap Caerwyn, who is my father’s son by my mother, Rhiannon. Merrick is—was—the son of Hafgan ap Annwn, the Unseelie king, and they’ve been hostage to the courts’ good behavior their entire lives. Merrick grew up with me. I’ve barely met Ioan.”

A dozen questions crowded through Lara’s mind, and the one that came out was the least important: “Are they second sons?”

“Firstborns. Ioan and Merrick are heirs to the thrones. It was when I was born that the treaty was made. Emyr’s luck in having sons worried Hafgan. With a second heir, my father might have risked trying to push the Unseelie back into the waters they came from.”

Lara closed her teeth on a second rush of questions, frowning at the horse’s alert ears. There was no visible road ahead of them, only forest and meadows, but the animals went with confidence, following a path she couldn’t see. The horse flicked an ear, as if aware she was paying attention to it, and Lara shook herself, trying to clear her mind. “The Unseelie are …?”

“The other peoples of the Barrow-land.” Dafydd drew breath to explain further, and Lara raised a hand sharply, cutting him off. Then she snatched at the saddle—there was no horn, the leather cut more like the English saddles she’d seen in a few movies than like the Western ones she was more familiar with—and clenched her stomach, uncertain of her balance.

Dafydd slipped an arm around her waist, warm and reassuring. Lara released her white-knuckled grip on the saddle carefully, relaxing incrementally against Dafydd. “Thanks. I’m not used to riding. And the Unseelie came from the ocean?” Her voice went up dubiously on the last word, earning Dafydd’s chuckle.

“So our legends tell us.” For a second time he started to say more, and Lara shook her head, not trusting herself to raise a hand again. The horse snorted, sounding for all the world like it was making commentary on her fear. She blinked, then, daring brought on by amusement, she patted the animal’s shoulder.

“I don’t need all the history. I just need enough to understand. Why did they exchange their firstborns? I thought second sons were more usual.” Insofar as she’d ever thought about it at all, at least. Lara could hardly imagine anyone in the modern world participating in exchanges of that nature.

“We—both Seelie and Unseelie—live a very long time. One of the prices we pay is that we have very few children. When Ioan and Merrick were the only heirs, warfare was rarely devastating, because neither king would risk their only child. When I was born, Emyr had an advantage. It was Hafgan’s idea to exchange the firstborns.”

“Better to not raise his own son than to risk losing him in battle?” Lara shook her head. “Wasn’t ‘not fighting’ an option?”

“The Barrow-lands are small,” Dafydd said with a shrug. “Before the Unseelie came from the oceans, there was enough land for the Seelie. Since they came, though, we’ve fought over the earth time and again.”

“How long ago was that?”

Dafydd shook his head, movement felt rather than seen. “As long as I can remember.”

Lara twisted to see him, wondering how long that might be. The horse side-stepped and snorted irritably. One of the guards, another woman, caught its bridle with an easy grip. “It is time immemorial to most of us since the Unseelie came from the oceans and began to fight us for our green growing places. I am Aerin,” she added with the air of someone unaccustomed to introducing herself.

“I’m Lara. It’s nice to meet you.” The perfunctory phrase was one Lara had learned she could say without discomfort creeping over her. Aerin’s hair was blue in the moonlight, and her eyes yellow, disconcerting colors that emphasized a lack of humanity. Lara glanced away, then back again, not wanting to be rude either by dismissing the woman or staring at her.

“And you,” Aerin said after a moment’s silence. Then she inclined her head toward Dafydd, murmuring a phrase Lara didn’t catch, then saying his name in a more familiar manner.

“Aerin.” Dafydd loosened his arm from around Lara to take the Seelie woman’s hand briefly, a smile in his voice. “How long has it been?”

A sting of envy stiffened Lara’s spine and the beleaguered horse huffed again, obviously displeased with her seat. Chastened, she tried to relax again. She’d met Dafydd only a few days earlier, and could hardly hold old friendships against him.

Her own thoughts chided her with dissonant tones, and Lara gave a huff of her own, quiet echo of the horse’s. She couldn’t reasonably hold old friendships against him, and with that half-amused amendment, the off-key notes in her mind subsided.

“Longer for you than for me, I think,” Aerin said. “Ten days, Dafydd. Ten days with no answers, and a week of that with skirmishes along the valley borders. Merrick’s death must be answered for, or we’ll all pay the price.”

“Which is what? War?”

“War,” Aerin said crisply. “The ruin of our people. The drowning of the lands.” Her attention slid to Lara, then back again, and it was with a note of affected diffidence that she asked, “And how long has it been for you?”

“The drow—” Lara looked away, trying to hide her face as a spasm of triumph seized her. War, the ruin of her people, and the drowning of the lands evidently came secondary to Aerin’s personal concerns, which suggested Lara wasn’t the only one fighting envy.

Dafydd, though, gave no hint of recognizing it in either of them as he said, “So little time we wouldn’t mark its passing, here, and yet so much time in the mortal land that I no longer recognize what it became from what it was. A century,” he added, so lightly the long years might not have had any meaning to him. “A decade there for every day here, it seems.”

Horror banished jealousy and its petty triumphs as Lara twisted to stare at Dafydd again. “That’s not going to happen to me, is it? You said I’d be home in time for dinner!”

He shook his head hastily. “No, no. You will be. The worldwalking spell has been charmed on your behalf. For a little while we can hold time in step, one world to the next. You’ll be gone no more hours at home than you spend here, but for my part, there was no knowing how long it would take to find a truthseeker. Even after only ten days here, we’re on the brink of war. A century might have seen the ruin of us all.”

Lara exhaled noisily, slumping in the saddle. “I think there’s too much you didn’t tell me.” The horse whickered agreement, turning with its fellows down a trail that became, as she watched, a broad avenue lined with trees that reached for the stars. At its far end, both impossibly distant and mirage-close, rose a building that looked like it had been carved of moonlight, pale and stunning against the foreground of green-black trees.

“Where did that—” Lara straightened again, eyes rounding. “I didn’t see us coming up on—” Despite her poor riding seat, she bent to look over Dafydd’s arm at the fading path they’d taken. “I should’ve been able to see that a long time ago. Why couldn’t I? What is it?”