Wander The Night, page 12
“This is the second time in less than a week that I’ve had to put you back together.” She raises a brow, head tilted at me, horizontal pupils bright. “I’d rather you not make a habit of this.”
“No promises,” I say. Eira smirks but doesn’t look up from her work. “How long has it been?”
“This time?” she asks pointedly, glancing at me for a bare second. “About half an hour. Last time, you were out for three days.”
I find myself unsure what to say to that, so I just give a hum in response.
Eira continues. “I suppose it’s too much to ask for you to be less reckless.”
I huff a laugh, focusing on the ceiling to distract myself from her hands against my side. “I’m pretty sure it’s an ingrained trait at this point.”
She snorts in what I can only imagine is agreement before we both fall silent.
“Stop holding your breath, dear,” she says after a moment.
I exhale with careful control. “Sorry.”
Eira finishes wrapping a length of silk and web around my ribs and then helps me sit up so I can change out of my stained shirt. Once I’ve gotten into a clean one, she piles pillows up behind me and makes me lie back.
“Drink this,” she says, putting a steaming cup in my hands. “It’ll help you heal faster.” She shakes her head with a sigh. “Besides that, I’m sure the king failed to feed you anything before putting you back to bed the first time.”
I make a derisive noise into the cup as I move to take a sip. “I didn’t exactly get a choice in the matter,” I say.
Eira arches a brow, disapproval evident. “So I’ve heard. Consequently, I have also given my opinion on such.”
“Did he bother to listen to you?” I ask. “Because he certainly isn’t listening to me lately.”
“Both of you rarely listen to the other,” she says and then gestures to the cup. “Finish that then.”
She may have a point, but that doesn’t mean I have to agree out loud. I finish the rest of the drink and place the now-empty cup in her waiting hand.
“Now,” she says, fixing me with a look that brokers no argument, “if I hear of you gallivanting off around the place again before I’ve given you permission, the Green Lord’s wrath will not be the one you’ll fear. Is that quite clear?”
I nod. “It is.”
I believe Eira is the most terrifying person under the Hill and probably the only faery alive who can bully Oberon and get away with it.
She nods back. “Good then.” And she gathers up her things and leaves the room, hooves clopping away softly.
Warmed by the drink and comfortable against the pillows, I doze for some time, not truly asleep and not fully awake. I am, however, alert enough to hear the door open. I crack my eyes open in time to see Oberon slip in cautiously, as though he thinks I might be asleep. He doesn’t look much like a king right now, tiptoeing about as he is. Then we meet eyes, and he drops his sneaking and closes the door behind him with less care.
“How are you?” he asks, coming closer to sit in a carved chair a few feet from me.
He’s trying far too hard to ignore our last encounter. I’m not letting him off so easily. I stare back, not answering.
He sighs, dropping his head into one hand to rub his temples. “I apologize for my earlier words. I went too far.”
“So did I,” I say, not looking away. “Doesn’t mean I’m ready to play nice.”
“I understand your position, I truly do,” he says. “But you also have to understand mine. I’ll not sacrifice one of you for the other. I can’t.”
I turn away, staring at a fold in the bed covers. “I understand. I just don’t like it.”
“I know,” he says, smiling wistfully. “I don’t expect you to.”
“I didn’t expect you to cast a glamour on me, but—” The shrug I give is heavy with spite. “You know...”
Oberon sighs again, dropping his head back against the chair. “I apologize for that as well. I didn’t think I could get you back into bed otherwise.” He raises his head to look at me. “Was I wrong to make that assumption?”
I blink at him and open my mouth to reply. As I can’t lie, I choose instead to roll my eyes and remain silent.
He chuckles softly. “You’re more like me than is helpful to either of us,” he says, drawing a slight smile out of me despite myself. “Of all the secrets I have kept as king, there are a couple I wish I had not.”
“Why did you?” I ask. “Keep it secret, I mean.”
Oberon’s brow knits together. “I wish I could say it was to protect you both, keep you from court scrutiny and jealous rivals. But I think the real reason was because of fear.”
I listen carefully, mouth quiet. We don’t speak like this often.
“When you showed up, I hadn’t even known you existed,” he continues, spreading his hands. “I was young, taken by surprise. I’d not been king long. I thought it would be better not to make anything public. With Kavi, I was afraid of losing Titania. Or losing her trust at the very least.” He laughs in self-deprecation. “I suppose there was no avoiding that in the end, hm?”
“You did what you thought best at the time,” I say.
I can’t fault him for that, even if it turned out that it wasn’t necessarily the right choice.
He gives a soft hum, though whether in agreement or not, I can’t tell.
I decide to try my luck, awful as it’s been of late. “What about Kavi then?” I ask. “You wouldn’t tell me earlier.”
Whenever that was. All sense of time is scrambled. I don’t even know if it’s day or night right now.
Oberon glances at me before studying a spot on the opposite wall. “You’re not going to like what I say.”
“I had a feeling.”
“I asked Mab to come to the Hill, to see if we can reach an agreement. I’d like for Kavi, Titania, and the baby to return home, and I would also prefer to avoid war by forcing the matter. Hopefully, she’s in a bargaining mood.”
“Did she agree to meet?” I raise a brow. “Seems more likely she’d want you to come to her.”
Oberon waves a hand. “I offered both options. She chose to come to us.”
“When?”
“Within the next few days. She didn’t give an exact date.”
I nod, thinking. Then I turn to Oberon, silently questioning. Will he let me be present when she arrives?
He gives me a look. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
I shrug one shoulder. “I figured.”
“I will give you more information when I have it,” he says, standing. “For now, just heal and try to refrain from worrying me overmuch.”
“I’ll do my best, I suppose.”
“I’m sure.” He smiles. “There’s a guard outside if you need anything.”
I smile back, watching him cross the room. I suspect the guard outside is just as much to make sure I stay put as anything, but I don’t argue. I just pull the covers up. I’m asleep mere minutes after he closes the door behind himself.
SCENE 4
In his play The Tempest, Shakespeare wrote an intriguing line: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’ He meant that people’s lives are the same thing as dreams, or some such metaphor. This is doubly true for the fey, who are practically made of dreams and yet dream ourselves. Perhaps that’s why A Midsummer Night’s Dream was called such. The entire play was a metaphor.
In any case, dreams are strange things. Your body settles into sleep, and your brain decides that’s a great time to mess with you. So it sends you through these realistic simulations when you can’t do anything about it. And sometimes they’re great, and sometimes they’re just weird. And then sometimes dreams are all of your fears and worries, all of your insecurities and deepest secrets, all brought to the forefront of your subconscious and twisted around.
Everything is on fire. That seems hyperbolic, I’m aware, but if anything isn’t ablaze, it’s soon to be. I’m standing in the throne room under the Hill and staring into the flames. I don’t think I set them, but I can’t be sure. I’m too hot and freezing at once. My vision is hazy, from smoke or something else, I don’t know.
A warped and blackened crown dangles from my hand. It’s familiar in some way I can’t quite grasp. One of its branching antlers is broken off, leaving behind a jagged jut of metal. Without thought, I run a finger along the broken edge. A well of blood rises from the cut it causes.
As though that action is a catalyst, I feel myself become weighted with wetness. I look down to see my clothing covered in blood, though I can find no visible injury.
The fires are suddenly snuffed out. What remains is a scorched throne surrounded by ash. A charred corpse sits grinning at me, fleshless lips pulled taut in mockery. The mouth opens, and the thing speaks with a sandpaper voice, smoke rolling out between its teeth.
“The king is dead. Long live the king.”
I try to take a step backward, but I’m moved closer to the corpse, inching nearer to the throne until I’m kneeling before it. The corpse extends its withered arms and pulls the crown from my hands. With false decorum, it places the ruined thing upon my head. As soon as it pulls its fingers away, the corpse crumbles to dust and ash. My body pulls itself up and forward. I reach the throne and turn, now facing an entire court of corpses like the first, all of them in varying degrees of decay. Their voices grate against each other.
“The king is dead. Long live the king.”
I sit on the throne, and a cheer goes up, a horrible, raucous cry that vibrates in my chest.
I wake up too hot and freezing. My ribs and head both ache. My shirt is damp, and I worry briefly that being drenched in blood is more than a dream before I realize it’s only a cold sweat. My heart still stutters with leftover panic.
The door opens without a heralding knock, and I startle, too preoccupied to remember to move with care. I jackknife upwards, and fire lights beneath my ribs. I curl into myself, rolling to my side, and try not to breathe. For a moment, all my awareness is limited to this one white-hot sensation.
The next thing I can focus on is the hand on my shoulder. When I pry my eyes back open, Mustardseed’s frown is visible, framed by her shock of yellow hair. I uncurl slightly so I can look at her properly. She’s wearing a yellow dress that somehow manages to compliment and not clash with her hair.
“Hey,” I finally manage.
The crease between her bright brows deepens. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” I whisper, because breathing still hurts.
Irritation overcomes her concern for a moment. “That thing you do where you pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Really?” she asks, like she’s already decided the answer for herself. “Because it sounded like you were about to make a joke.”
I shake my head, as well as can be managed against the bedsheets. “I actually wasn’t. I think I’m out of jokes right now. Unconscious effort, maybe.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re literally making a joke right now.”
I think about it. “Oh.” She probably has a point.
She sighs. “Stay there.”
As she rises to move toward the door, I watch her from the corner of my eye. “Wasn’t planning otherwise.”
Mustardseed stops in her stride. Her back is to me, but her shoulders rise and fall like she’s taking a deep breath. She’s easily irritated, and I’m occasionally irritating. I’m not sure what she’s come to my room for, if not for my dazzling company. She picks up a tray from the floor and brings it over to set it on top of the table near the bed.
“I came by earlier, but you were asleep,” she explains. “I thought you might be still, so I didn’t knock. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay. I’d been dreaming something weird.”
“The normal, accidentally-naked kind of weird?” she asks, a smile in her voice, “or the Robin-Goodfellow, just-turned-a-guy-into-a-donkey kind of weird?”
She steps to the side, and I see what she’s brought on the tray. A couple of fruit tarts, some cheese, a golden-skinned apple, and two glasses, one of water, the other of wine.
I give a huff of amusement. “Quite beyond either of those, unfortunately.”
She hums in response and hands me the glass of water. “Drink this.”
I push myself up, carefully this time, and accept the glass. “Oberon rope you into babysitting me?”
Mustardseed’s expression is unreadable. “I volunteered.” She points to the glass in my hand. “Drink that. Eira sent it.”
I arch an eyebrow at her and take a sip. Something has been added to the water, something with a vague herbal taste. I pull a face, and Mustardseed stares at me, daring me to complain. I grin at her and finish the glass. She takes the empty glass from me and replaces it with the one of wine, which I sip more slowly. The taste is far more improved from the first.
“So you volunteered, huh?” I ask. “And here I thought you didn’t like me.”
“Well, someone had to bring you food and make sure you didn’t die.” She sits down on the edge of the bed, tucking one leg beneath her. “And everyone likes you.”
“I beg to differ.”
She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Everyone Green likes you, then.”
“Wrong again. Last I checked, Titania still hated my guts.”
“You know, I don’t think she does. Besides, she’s only Green fey by a technicality.” She pulls the glass of wine from my fingers, regardless of the fact I haven’t finished, and hands me one of the tarts. It’s topped with jam and honey. “Eat that.”
“Bossy.”
She ignores my comment and continues her previous track. “I do mean it though. I don’t think Titania hates you. I think a lot of the people who act like they hate you are just jealous of you.” She tilts her head at a jaunty angle. “Personally, I find you quite likable when you want to be, but I don’t appreciate being interrupted while I’m trying to work, which is something you’re too often guilty of.”
I finish the tart. “That’s a fair statement.”
“Also, Titania isn’t as bad as you believe her to be.”
“Hmm, less fair statement.”
“I’m being serious,” she says, admonishing. “The two of you butt heads a lot, but I don’t think she’d want you dead.”
“Mab would. Trust me on that.”
“And trust me on this. I’ve worked for Titania for a long time. I would know.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
She thrusts a chunk of cheese at me. “So what’s your plan?”
I take the cheese to avoid her ire. “Are you just feeding me so I’ll divulge my secrets to you?”
She fixes me with a glare. “I’m feeding you so you don’t pass out again.” My cheeks heat, but Mustardseed continues without comment. “So, what’s your plan?”
“Who said I had a plan? And why does it have to be me who has a plan?”
“The fact that you avoided answering that makes me think you have a plan.”
I give her a wry smile. “Recently, I’ve found myself too unconscious to plot rescue missions.”
She swats at my leg. “That’s not funny, Puck. We all thought you were going to die.”
I open my mouth, and Mustardseed’s sharp eyes narrow dangerously.
“Don’t,” she growls, “make a joke of that.”
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and cast my eyes downward. It’s such an ingrained action, making self-deprecating remarks, that I sometimes do it without thinking. But then I make deprecating remarks about other people too. Considering how many figurative bears I poke within the court, one needs to be either a fast runner or good at talking one’s way out of trouble. I like to think I’m both.
Mustardseed is still watching me, expectant.
“I really don’t have a plan,” I say, shrugging, “if that’s what you’re waiting for.”
“Then it’s a good thing I do have a plan, isn’t it?” she replies, sounding smug.
“Oh, really? Backsliding a bit, are we?”
“Hardly. Moth is my friend too,” she says. “And despite what anyone may assume, so is Kavi. I don’t want him to suffer some ill fate because of the sins of his father.” She shifts, leaning back a little. “Titania needs to be convinced to return to the Green Court. We weren’t stable the last time she and Oberon separated, and we’re even less stable now. Besides, Peaseblossom doesn’t belong in Mab’s court. She’s too innocent, and they’ll take advantage of that.”
I don’t answer for a moment, processing the points she’s made. “We need an ambassador. Or something. I don’t know.”
I rub my eyes, feeling an ache forming behind them.
Mustardseed gives an uncharacteristic smirk. “What we need is a set of eyes on the inside.” Her own eyes have a predatory gleam. “I think a rabbit would be small enough to sneak into the meeting Oberon is scheduled to have with Mab.”
“I suppose so—” And then the meaning of her insinuation dawns. “Oh, come on. Really?”
“You’re a convenient shapeshifter,” she points out. “Why wouldn’t we use that to our advantage?”
“It stings to admit that the idea has some merit.”
“It won’t be the dumbest thing you’ve done to date.”
My mouth opens in affront. “Ouch.”
She slides off the bed. “Tell me I’m wrong.” She takes the apple from the tray and places it on the table. “That’s for later if you want it.” She picks up the tray and turns back to me. “I have to return to work. I’ll be in periodically, you know, to make sure you haven’t died.”
“You’re the worst, do you know that?”
“Not the only thing I’ve been called.” She winks, giving a backward wave and sauntering from the room.
SCENE 5
The next few days pass much the same. I spend a lot of time asleep, interspersed with visits from Mustardseed. She brings me food, always with an apple I never eat, and news from the court, though hardly ever anything that truly counts as news. The court is waiting for what Oberon and Mab will discuss and, more importantly, what they will decide. Everyone seems to be holding their breath.
