Wayfinder

Nineteen

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.”

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.”