The unseen, p.21
The Unseen, page 21
BRANNON
As he crested what Aedyn had promised would be the final hill, Brannon spotted a cluster of circular buildings and let out an immense sigh of relief. The Raths. They had actually made it.
Just shy of two weeks had passed since he’d ambushed Slate at that ridiculous festival, but it felt like years. He’d suffered the others’ company as best he could, so as not to arouse their suspicions, but he wasn’t sure how much more comradery he could fake. These were not his friends. They were two tools and an obstacle.
The rest of the group burst into a cheer upon seeing their destination, all equally relieved. Brannon smiled genuinely at the thought of finally resting his feet. That dead arm of his was throwing off his balance, resulting in a bevy of aches and blisters, but he hadn’t complained aloud even once. Best not to show weakness to those you’d later need to intimidate.
“What’s the food like in the Faerie?” Lydia asked, skipping ahead of the others as they began their descent. “Are there cakes? Puddings? Pies? What about honeyed pheasant?”
Aedyn laughed. “All that and more.”
“And the clothing?”
“The most beautiful you’ll ever see, I swear it.”
The child practically floated, she jumped so high. Brannon could not imagine getting so excited over snacks or stockings. Even the notion of traveling to another world—which would have either frightened or thrilled most others—felt like a mundane chore, just another box to tick on his way back home.
“Someone race me!” Lydia begged. “Please!”
“Oh, alright,” Slate stooped beside the girl. “On your mark, get set—”
Lydia took off.
“Cheater!” Slate shouted, giving chase. “What do you think the fae-folk do with dishonest little girls?”
“We give them crowns,” Aedyn shouted after them.
Surprisingly, the prince didn’t join in the race. He was normally the most childish in the bunch, to the point of occasionally annoying the actual child. Now, he strolled along slowly, hands shoved in his pockets and face tilted earthward. Though curious, Brannon had bigger concern than some fae fop’s fleeting discontentment. The girls were finally out of earshot, and he could ask some of the questions that had been burning in his brain.
“How will they know the heal me?”
“Excuse me?” Aedyn blinked over at him.
“The Sylphs,” Brannon said. “I can imagine the plan’s changed, now that we know the girl is the charm. You’re too sentimental to offer her up as evidence, so smuggling us in is the only option. If we’re meant to lie low, how will the Sylphs know to heal me?”
“This may come as a shock,” Aedyn smiled, “but I’ve actually thought that one through.”
“That is shocking. Are you sure you don’t need a few more years?”
“Who knew you could be funny?”
“I assure you that it was a fluke.”
Aedyn laughed anyway. “Seelie fae, like myself, aren’t permitted to visit the Mortal Realm, but that rule doesn’t go both ways. Mortals stumble in on occasion and are usually well-received. Sometimes they crash through the Parting Sea. Sometimes they stumble upon a potion. Sometimes they wander in through the Melding Caverns. Once, a little girl was playing ‘Wish-I-May’ in a toadstool ring, when she accidentally said the right thing while holding the right flowers and poof! She wound up right outside the gates of Samhria. We never did get her back home now that I think about it.”
Brannon cleared his throat.
“All this to say that one of those buildings leads to the Melding Caverns,” Aedyn explained, nodding toward the Raths. “If I send you through by yourself, no one will think anything of it. The Daoine Sidhe of the Red Realm are a burly bunch, but they are a kind and generous people. One look at your arm and they’ll send you straight up to Talunasa. With the Midsummer Ball underway, the palace will be swarming with Sylphs. I’ll simply slip through another tunnel and meet you there.”
It was a decent plan, much to Brannon’s surprise.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Aedyn added. “Don’t tell the Sidhe that you want to go ‘up’ to Talunasa. We have a bit of a difference of perspective there. They’re wrong, of course, but we pretend not to notice.”
“Understood,” Brannon said, though it really wasn’t.
The men caught up with Slate and Lydia just outside of the first Rath. Both girls were leaning against the wall, bickering over who’d won their stupid race despite a noticeable lack of breath.
“Save at least a little of your energy,” Aedyn warned. “We still have quite a way to go.”
“Fine.” Slate straightened, taking Lydia’s hand in hers. “What’s next?”
Aedyn and Brannon explained the plan, and the girls agreed to it, though Lydia didn’t look happy about it.
“I’ll miss you,” she said to Aedyn, who patted her on the head and assured her she would not have to miss him very long. She then turned to Brannon. “And you’ll be off healing, so I’ll miss you, too.”
The words settled strangely on Brannon’s shoulders. He shrugged them off.
Together, they marched to the first entrance, where Aedyn examined a blue rune that had been carved above the door, only to say “hmm” and move on to the next.
“You know where you’re going, right?” Brannon asked. “I swear to fuck if you—”
“It’s an ancient script, but you have no reason worry.” Aedyn waved the concern away. “The symbols are color-coded: blue for the Parting Sea, yellow for Talunasa, and red for the Melding Caverns.”
“You’re positive?”
Aedyn was already entering the Rath with the red marking. Brannon looked to Slate, who shrugged and followed after, before doing the same.
Though the Rath was weathered and gray on the outside, vivid patterns wove along the inner walls. They did not seem to have faded with time, though they must have been painted centuries prior. A round wooden door rested in the center of the floor. Aedyn flung it carelessly open, not bothering to check for traps. Luckily, all that waited beneath it were stone steps, descending into darkness.
Aedyn visibly shuddered. “Light?”
Slate pulled a matchbook and a few candles from her satchel. She lit a candle apiece for Aedyn, Lydia, and herself, ignoring Brannon altogether.
Fine by me. He didn’t need some fickle little light, and he certainly didn’t need her approval.
The tunnel snaked downward for at least a mile before splitting off into branches. Aedyn always kept to the centermost path, claiming to have learned to do so from a nursery rhyme as a child. The further they marched, the more Brannon’s feet ached. The more his feet ached, the more he doubted Aedyn’s sense of direction. The more he doubted Aedyn, the more seriously he considered killing him.
At last, Aedyn paused, casting candlelight over a rune on the wall. It was identical to that which had been etched above the door.
“We’re getting close,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Twenty more feet, thirty tops.”
Footsteps scraped against stone. Brannon hadn’t heard them until the others fell still, or if he had, he’d excused them as mere echoes. He bid the others to hush, then turned around slowly.
The soft sighs of languid breathing staggered through the stale air. Silhouettes crept through the darkness, smudges of charcoal against black. As the shapes drew closer, candlelight glistened in their eyes and yellow teeth.
“Who are you?” Brannon’s left hand reached for a blade he no longer possessed. “And what do you want?”
Laughter echoed off the tunnel walls as a boy stepped into the undulating light. His matted brown hair and freckled face were familiar. Brannon had only ever regarded assassins like Wolf as paltry competition. From the scavenger smile the boy now wore, he’d viewed Brannon the same way.
“It’s been a while, Black,” Wolf said, eyes drifting to the others. “Sorry to intrude on whatever this is, but business is business. Father’s been concerned, to say the least.”
Sardonic though the claim was, Brannon couldn’t help hoping there was truth to it. Sable had been only a petty thief, and Slate, a continual nuisance. But he had always been among the Father’s favorites—a loyal soldier from the start. Surely, that counted for something.
A violet light burst to life in Brannon’s periphery as Slate stepped forward, icon brandished. “Tell the Father he can go to Hell,” she said.
“And if it isn’t our favorite runaway,” Wolf said as the shadows behind him inched forward. “You always did think you were better than the rest of us, didn’t you?” He shook his head, pulling his icon—a battered hunting knife—from his belt. “It’s a good thing the Father said we could bring you back ‘dead or alive.’ After all the trouble you’ve caused, he didn’t care much either way.”
“Wait!” Brannon stepped away from the others, raising his good palm. “You can take me with you. I won’t put up a fight.”
Wolf snickered, and his initiates followed suit. “What good are you, with that shriveled husk of an arm?”
Brannon unconsciously grasped his dead arm. He’d thought those very words himself, but hearing them…
“It’s not—”
“Don’t kid yourself!” Wolf snickered. “You’re a useless sack of shit now, not that you were much more before. Couldn’t even retrieve a little runaway girl.”
“Enough.” Aedyn marched forward, unsheathing his rapier. “I’m going to give you a choice—go home now of your own volition, or I’ll send you there in pieces.”
Wolf did not look intimidated. “Looks like the wounded assassin found a suitor to protect his honor.”
“Careful, Wolf,” Brannon growled. “Even wounded and unarmed, I’m twice the fighter you are.”
“Well, then you’re still far outnumbered.” Wolf leveled his icon at Brannon. “Get ’em, boys.”
The shadows rushed forward.
Violet light gleamed off frenzy-wide eyes and sharpened steel, lending each agent a purple halo. A shadow slashed at Brannon’s heart. He pivoted, and the blade lodged in his dead arm, painless. Brannon grabbed his assailant’s face and slammed it into the wall. Something cracked. Something squelched. A body thudded against stone.
Brannon ripped the blade from his arm, wincing at a shock of phantom pain. He raked it across the throat of the next shadow to sprint past.
The glow of Slate’s dagger had drifted deeper into the tunnel, but Brannon no longer needed it. At the simple feeling of cold steel against his palm, the fight flooded back into him like air to a shriveled lung. He sliced his way through the darkness with a feral, consuming hunger, and three more bodies fell at his feet. The thrill was dizzying, distractingly so.
A pommel slammed into his fingers. His weapon clattered to the ground. A weight crashed into him at an angle, slamming him into the wall. His dead shoulder popped on impact, loud enough to make his stomach flip.
“The Father always gets what he wants,” Wolf said, knife pressed to Brannon’s throat. The conviction in his voice was familiar—a near echo of the assassin’s own sordid devotion.
Fool, Brannon thought, as much to himself as his foe.
The younger agent chuckled, sliding his knife up to the corner of Brannon’s eye. “I was going to make this quick, but I think Father would like a trophy.”
“Black, catch!” Slate shouted.
Brannon held out his hand just in time to catch the dagger by its handle. He recognized the heft of the hilt, the grooves worn into the leather wrapping. His Aras Tosc. Brannon had never missed anything quite so much.
Before Wolf knew what was happening, Brannon’s dagger imbedded in his temple. Crimson sprayed through the air as the blade pulled free, and the agent crumbled to the floor.
Brannon took a moment, regaining both his breath and his bearings. At least a dozen agents had passed him by in favor of the others, but the thief and the prince were holding their own. Haunting violet arced through the darkness with Slate’s every practiced slash. Whenever a strike landed, an agent wailed in agonized fear, and a phantom pain pulsed through Brannon’s shoulder. Aedyn stood a bit further back, limned in the quivering light of Lydia’s candle. Or so it seemed. When an agent slashed the prince’s throat, he vanished, and the true Aedyn leapt out from the darkness, thrusting his rapier through his assailant’s stomach.
Brannon was not about to let the others have all the fun. A blink, and he was battling alongside them. It was not easy, adjusting to one-armed combat, but Slate and Aedyn picked up his slack until he caught the rhythm. One at a time, the agent’s dying wails filled the hollow in his chest. The violence was like supper to a starved man, and the aftertaste cloying—something rich and sweet and altogether inebriating.
Vengeance, valiance, vindication …
Whatever it was, Brannon knew he’d be chasing it for the rest of his life.
“Take her alive!” a voice shouted as the remaining agents rushed them. Several fell, but a trio forged past, grabbing hold of Lydia. Her candle fell, guttering out.
Slate sprinted toward the child, trailing violet light. Brannon followed after. A blinding flash filled the tunnel, and he fell still, shielding his eyes. When he peered over his arm, squinting, Lydia’s skin shone like moonlight. One agent released her, backing away. The other two froze in place, still gripping an arm apiece.
“Aetri en Sca!” the child shouted. The words slithered over themselves, and it was not merely the reflection of sound on stone. She opened eyes of violet flame as a wind raged suddenly around her, whipping through her hair. She lurched upward, ripping her captor’s arms from their sockets.
Those agents fell, but the child continued rising. The wind grew stronger, louder, forcing Brannon to his knees. What remained of the Greyscale troop fled, their footfalls scraping as they clambered toward the exit. Lydia crashed to the floor, and her light sputtered out.
Slate continued her sprint, and Brannon followed her blade’s dwindling light. Aedyn was waiting at the end of the tunnel, cradling the…what Brannon had thought was a little girl. She looked so peaceful again, her little eyes closed, her little arms limp.
Aedyn passed Lydia to Slate, who examined her by the fading glow of Gelah’s runes. Perhaps it was the purple pall, but the girl looked paler than before. Her ivory skin and buttercream hair had been peculiar—sickly even—but her new, snowy cast was downright chilling.
It conjured images of a willow-thin woman and the shadowy beasts she willed into being.
“She’s not breathing.” Panic pinched Slate’s voice. “W-what can we do?”
Brannon reached for her shoulder, but she instinctually flinched away. “We need to leave here.” He looked to Aedyn, hoping he could think more clearly than the grieving thief. “The Fa—” He cut himself off, balling his fist. “The bastard who sent those agents might have thought to send reinforcements. If he did, they’ll be here in no time.”
Aedyn nodded, nudging Elwyn. “The Sylphs are her best hope, now,” he said, helping her lift Lydia from the floor. “I’m going with you, no matter how it looks. I can get you to a healer faster than the Sidhe could.”
Slate followed the prince, carrying Lydia, and Brannon walked backward behind them, knife raised. If any agents came after them, he was going to make their job difficult. Within seconds, Aedyn announced they’d reached the gateway, and Brannon whirled to find a yawning pit. The edges were visible the light of Slate’s dagger, but only darkness stared back from its depths.
“Shall we jump?” Aedyn asked. It was more a suggestion, really.
Brannon blinked, frozen by the possibilities of what waited below. For all he knew, faerie was a horrible place. Worse, even, than the nightmares he’d already lived through.
Aedyn elbowed his side. “Black?”
“It’s Brannon,” he replied.
He breathed deeply and dove.
The darkness splashed, and the weight of nineteen sorrowful years floated around Brannon, suspended in salty cold. He opened his eyes to murky green waters, stretching out in all directions. The shapes of his…colleagues—yes, that was it—drifted nearby, unmoving.
His pulse pounded as he searched for light, desperate to parse the heights from the depths. When he found none, he flailed, directionless. A burn like frostbite filled his lungs, clawing its way to his throat. His vision blurred, dimmed, then darkened.
After all of that…
How many minds had harbored those same last words?
A shadow drifted through the depths, lithe, lean, and envy-green. The next thing Brannon knew, cold lips pressed against his, forcing them open. Fresh air filled his lungs, briny as an ocean gale.
He washed up on glittering white sand, coughing despite his empty lungs, and squinted up at a world of violent color. Viridian forests sprawled over hills and spilled through winding valleys. Turquoise waterfalls sliced through the green, cascading from jagged amber cliffsides. Vivid lights, like fireflies, danced playfully in the distance, and gilded towers pierced the canopy, spiraling like seashells toward the cloudless, cerulean sky. In the distance stood a tree the size of a city, its massive branches, clad in gold and green, grasping toward a lemon-yellow sun.
Webbed hands grabbed hold of Brannon, yanking him to his feet. Several soldiers stood before him, clad in sleek cobalt armor. Their green skin glistened like viper scales, and thin, serrated ears that poked from their helms, reminiscent of gills.
“Who are you?” Brannon asked, his voice coarse.
The soldiers answered by leveling their spears at Brannon, and not him alone. Aedyn and Slate stood to either side of him, dripping wet and shivering. Lydia was draped over the thief’s arms, limp as flayed flesh, and the bastard spawn of a butterfly and an imp clung to her shoulder—Luatha, he assumed.
He’d imagined piskies would look a little less…insectile.
One soldier stepped ahead of the formation, distinguished from her colleagues by a teal bandolier coated in barnacles. She leveled her spear at Aedyn, and he responded with that dopey smile he was always flashing.
