Wander The Night, page 22
A dryad.
She runs a hand through my hair again. A tangle catches on her knotted knuckle. She regards me with what seems like curiosity, but it’s hard to decipher her expression.
My entire body aches.
I lever myself up on my elbows, and the dryad lets her hand fall. The sky is still dark with full night, though no stars are visible, so I reason I can’t have been out too long.
Of course, the last time I had that thought, it was a matter of days, not hours. Or was that the time before last? Or the time before that? This is becoming an unwelcome habit.
The dryad girl is still watching me, motionless except for the occasional blink.
Dryads, man. They’re almost more plant than person, and as such, they’re one of the few types of fey who prefer sunlight to moonlight. All the same, I’ve always found their company somewhat unnerving. I can only imagine our sudden arrival is what coaxed her from her tree.
Speaking of which—
“Do you know where Oberon is?” I ask.
She stares a moment longer, tilts her head to one side. At first, I think she doesn’t know who I’m talking about, but then I register the emotion in her black eyes. It’s pity. She lifts a brown hand and points a thin finger past my shoulder.
I push myself up till I’m sitting and turn. A couple of yards away, more dryads—three of them—cluster around something on the ground. Peering through their branching limbs, I can make out the shape of a body.
My blood freezes in my veins.
I stagger to my feet and trip more than walk over to where they sit. Oberon lies in the midst of their forms. I drop to my knees in a gap between the dryads. The force jars my body painfully, but the sensation is dulled by the adrenaline of panic.
Oberon’s shirt and jacket are soaked with blood, and the grass beneath him is starting to stain. An arrow—the arrow—protrudes from the right side of his chest, a couple of inches below his collar bone. His eyes are open but glassy, glazed over with pain.
“Robin,” he breathes, relief coming into his features. “When we came through—I thought you’d…” He trails off.
I shake my head. “I’m okay,” I assure him. As okay as possible, at least. My own needs aren’t at the forefront of my thoughts. “Did Mab…?” My eyes trail to the arrow.
“No. I simply failed to get out of the way. I’m afraid my attention was elsewhere.”
With a start, I realize Oberon’s magicked beard is gone, replaced by smooth, pale skin. The arrow is eating away his glamour.
I whirl to look over at the faerie gate we came through, only to confirm my suspicions. The willow tree is wilted and greyed, roots dark with rot.
Dying.
Panicking anew, I whip back around to Oberon, reaching out to grab the arrow. Under normal circumstances, pulling it out would be a terrible idea, but I’m afraid leaving it in is more of an immediate danger than blood loss.
As soon as my fingers wrap around the shaft, however, a jolt like an electric current shoots up my arm. I jerk my hand back with a cry of pain, hugging my arm to my chest as my vision whites out and then refocuses. Pins and needles dance along my skin. Whether I can access it or not, I still have glamour that can be taken.
Oberon puts a hand against my knee, his touch weaker than it should be. His fingers leave a red smudge on the fabric of my pants.
“It’s okay,” he says, sounding tired. Resignation hangs in his eyes.
No. It’s not okay.
I shake my head, throat tight. I don’t voice the words, afraid my composure will crumble if I speak.
I yank my sleeve down over my hand and reach again for the arrow. Oberon grabs my wrist and guides it downward. There’s little strength in his grip, but I don’t fight it.
I bow my head, heat gathering in my eyes. “Please.”
“It will make little difference,” he says. “The damage has been done.”
I shake my head again, eyes closed, scattering tears from under my lashes.
A hand at my knee again, then clutching at my fingers. “Robin.”
I drag my gaze up to meet his.
He smiles softly at me. “It’s okay.”
I glance to one of the dryads, a silent plea I hope she understands.
She must know what I ask because she shakes her head in answer.
Without a word, she and the other two—other three; the one I woke up to has joined them, but when did she arrive?—join hands with each other. Glamour hums in the air around us, and as one, they lay their hands on Oberon’s chest. Nothing heals, but the lines of pain soften on his face. Then, ever in silence, the four dryads rise and retreat to an area a few yards away.
Without the audience, what’s left of my composure shatters, and a sob forces itself out. My body folds forward with a weight I’ve never known.
“Robin—”
“I’m so sorry.”
Oberon gives my hand a weak squeeze. “It isn’t your fault.”
I meet his eyes, his form blurred by tears. “But I should’ve—”
“I should’ve,” he interrupts. “We all make our choices by the opportunities we’re given. For my part, I should have made some different choices along the way.” He smiles, and I try not to notice his weakening voice. “For what it may be worth, I am very proud of the choices you have made.”
I’m not sure how to respond, what I can say when there’s now so little time in which to say it. So I say nothing and only cry harder.
Oberon sighs and tugs at my sleeve, guiding me down until my forehead is resting against his uninjured shoulder. He holds me there for a moment, hand at the back of my neck, before letting me back up.
I can see the strength leaving him, his breaths becoming shallower. His chest rises and falls almost imperceptibly. “I have lived a long life,” he says, taking my hand once more. “It’s time for you to live yours now.”
I take a breath, open my mouth.
He cuts me off before I can say anything. “And I don’t mean for you to live it for me. I mean for you to live it for yourself. To do what you want.” He smiles at me, eyes tired and heavy. “Don’t let anyone else dictate your choices.”
I shake my head, trying for a smile that refuses to form. “I won’t. I’ll do my best to make you proud.”
Unshed tears hang in Oberon’s lashes. When he speaks, his voice is little more than a whisper. “Oh, my son. I already am.”
His eyes slide shut. A minute passes. Two. His chest rises and falls, rises, falls, and then stills.
I don’t move from his side.
I sit there, legs long asleep beneath me, fingers tangled with his.
I sit there as his skin cools.
I sit there as his face pales further.
I sit there as his limbs stiffen.
I sit there as the night drags on and the world turns and the final request of my father hangs in my mind.
Don’t let anyone else dictate your choices.
I intend to follow his advice. He said to live for myself. He said to do what I want.
What I want to do is stop hiding. I am Robin Goodfellow, eldest child of Oberon, and the Crown Prince of the Green Court. And I am pissed.
Mab has taken everything from me now. She has taken my home, my court, my family. She has taken my freedom. But she has also given me something. She has given me independence from my secrets. An entire audience heard the announcement of who I am. The rest of the Grey Court, and the surrounding territory, will be aware of everything before long. With Titania having acquired the crown, the news will soon spread to the Green Court as well.
Don’t let anyone else dictate your choices.
Oberon meant for his wife to have his throne, meant for her to rule. Titania may have the Green crown, but Mab will be the one pulling her sister’s strings.
Let Mab play puppet master for now. Let her have her fun. Exile won’t stop me. This is just a side street, a detour. She thinks herself honorable for protecting her sister, but she has gone too far. And I have nothing else to lose.
Don’t let anyone else dictate your choices.
I am the Crown Prince of the Green Court, and I am going to win back my throne.
SCENE 6
I’ve gone almost as stiff and cold as the body before me when bark-like fingers card through my hair. Despite the strangeness of the gesture, I’m not surprised by it. Dryads tend to be solitary creatures, though they sometimes keep company with their own kind. As such, they can be a bit socially awkward in the eyes of other fey.
I turn to see the girl I woke up to, but she’s not looking at me. Her inkwell eyes are on Oberon’s still form, her hands trailing zig-zags along my scalp.
“Should we bury him, my prince?” she asks, her voice like wind through leaves.
I pull away, startled, and she lets her hand fall to her side.
“How do you…?” The rest of the words stick in my throat.
The dryad turns her black eyes on me. “He told us. The king. He told us who you are.”
“Oh.” Some of the tension drains from me. “What should I call you?”
“Brekken.” She blinks. “It will rain soon.”
I look skyward and then around, at the rest of my surroundings. Now that she has pointed it out, I can smell the promise of rain in the air. Along the horizon, the distance is pink with the blush of a coming dawn. A Ferris wheel rises above the treetops a little way off.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“A park,” Brekken says, “in the human city called Chicago.”
That explains a lot. The air smells of iron and gasoline and pollution, leaking past the trees and bushes and snaking through the grass. It’s inescapable, a thing so ingrained that it seeps up from the very earth.
“Should we bury him?” Brekken asks again. “Before the rain comes?”
No, I want to say, but delaying it won’t make it easier. It won’t bring him back.
I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod.
“I will return, my prince.”
I don’t respond. I untangle my fingers from Oberon’s and stand up, blood flow surging back into my cramped limbs and sending painful tingles through my legs.
When Brekken returns, the other three dryads from earlier have joined her.
“May we?” they ask in eerie unison.
I don’t know exactly what they’re seeking permission for, but I haven’t the mental capacity to think about much right now. I nod again with tired acceptance.
Earth-scented glamour hums, and roots break through the ground. As I watch, the roots tunnel back and forth, in and out of the dirt, until a rectangular hole is formed. A grave, I realize.
When a deep hole has been made, the dryads shift their attention. Some sort of vine, with heart-shaped leaves and white flowers, wraps itself around Oberon’s body. The roots push forward to lift him and then lower him into the grave. Several roots begin to cover his body with dirt while a few others extend upward. On the extending roots, the vining plant catches and spreads.
With a sudden sob, I realize what the dryads are doing. The roots atop the grave fold and twist until they have created a chair, a throne. The vines spread across it as the grave is filled in, and the unembellished roots sink back into the earth.
It is a memorial spot fit for a king.
As the sun starts to tip into the visible sky, the flowers close, and I recognize the type. Moonflower. A blossoming vine whose flowers open every sundown and close every sunup. A nocturnal flower for the nocturnal fey.
Poetic. A touch dramatic. Oberon would love it.
Brekken steps up beside me. “Do you find it acceptable, my prince?”
I admire the night-blooming throne before me. “It’s perfect.”
Brekken’s expression changes very little, but I can feel pride hover over her.
One of the other dryads approaches us. “His Highness should rest,” she says, black eyes intent on my face.
Brekken’s rough hand is closed around my wrist, and I realize hazily that I’ve been swaying. I’m not sure how long it’s been since I’ve actually slept and not just been unconscious.
I run my free hand over my eyes. “Okay.”
“You may sleep in my tree,” Brekken offers.
I nod—because that appears to be my answer to everything lately—and her eyes shimmer. She cuts a glance to her companions, who blink their beetle-shell eyes at her and retreat to their home trees.
If I didn’t know better, I would say she’s bragging and the other dryads are jealous. But then maybe I don’t know better.
Brekken leads me by the wrist to her tree, a lithe but sturdy elm, and deposits me in front of the trunk. She instructs me to wait, by way of a raised finger, before she melts into the tree and disappears. A few brief seconds pass, and a branch bends itself toward me. It carries an air of invitation, so I accept the offer and climb on as though it’s a horse. The branch rises upward. Several branches overhead weave themselves together. The finished effect is akin to a bird’s nest. The branch I’m on stops beside the nest and, when I’ve gotten off, returns to its original position.
Brekken melts out of the trunk at my level. “Will this do, my prince?”
I don’t tell her I’m tired enough that I could’ve slept on a park bench or the ground or a bed of hot coals. Her face is far too eager to please, and really, this is better than any other option I had.
I manage what I hope is a reasonable smile, given the circumstances. “You’ve done wonderfully, Brekken.”
Several leaves of her ivy hair turn red with what I imagine is the dryad version of a blush. She says nothing, just inclines her head in a sort of bow and fades back into her tree.
I lay down in the nest she crafted. Under the cover of leaves and branches, any park visitors will pass me by, unaware. City people aren’t known for their astute observations of nature anyway.
Aching in more than just body, I fall asleep to the morning sun.
SCENE 7
Sleep is filled with the sounds of traffic and voices and birds. It’s dotted with the aches of recent abuse and the stab of sharp tree limbs when I roll over or shift. It’s filtered with sunlight that sneaks past the leaves overhead. All of this seeps through my subconscious and into my dreams.
It’s a dream like I’ve had before, and then it isn’t.
It starts out familiar: everything on fire, blood-soaked clothes, a damaged crown in my hand, a talking corpse.
“The king is dead. Long live the king.”
The charred throne stands before me.
And then the dream changes. White flowers and vinery sprout from the ground and overtake the throne. The broken crown reforms into something bright and new. The ashes turn to snow beneath my feet.
In the distance, the hazy image of a tree. No, three trees, twined together into something like a pyramid. One ash, one oak, one thorn. They beckon, but no matter how I run, how I push myself forward, I can’t reach them.
Someone is singing, the voice coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.
The sound of a car horn cuts through the air, followed soon after by a siren, and I startle awake. The dream shatters and flees my mind, replaced by midday light and the bustle of city life. Rain falls to the earth in fat, drumming drops, visible from under the canopy of leaves.
I sigh and roll over as much as my cracked ribs will allow and bully myself back into sleep.
When I next wake, the sky is darkening, and the rain has stopped. The sounds of traffic are audible but diminished. I’m still tired—eternally, as of late—but I feel like I can at least function without falling over.
I sit up and stretch. Carefully. The air burns the back of my throat. It’s doing me no favors to stay in this city, but I need somewhere to lay low for a while, somewhere to heal and to think.
And yet thinking is the last thing I want to do right now.
My traitorous eyes dare a glance at the ground below. The flowers are opening their petals along the edges of the throne over Oberon’s grave, the white blooms unfurling with the edge of night. The memory of a lifeless form, of cold hands and too much blood, flickers through my mind. I stamp it out before it can overwhelm me, forcing tears away before they can form. I rip my gaze away and clamber upright.
Brekken must know I’m awake. The branch beside me lifts itself in invitation. I swing one leg over it and allow it to lower me to the ground. The tree’s resident dryad is sitting at the roots.
“Good evening, my prince,” Brekken says. She doesn’t rise to greet me, just blinks up with those black eyes of hers. She’s strange in a refreshing way.
“Hey,” I say, and then wonder if that sounds too human, too not-royal.
She doesn’t call me on it. “Did you rest well?”
I lift one shoulder. “More or less. How do you stand the air here?”
She cocks her head to one side. “Dryads are much like trees. We can take something damaged, something tainted, and breathe life back into it. The air bothers us less than it does the other fey.”
“That’s cool. I didn’t know that.”
Her eyes shimmer in that way I’m starting to realize means she’s pleased with herself.
“Are there other fey that live here?” I ask, taking a seat on the ground next to her. “Other Exiles?”
Other Exiles. It stings to say it, to number myself among them even if not in so many words. I have nothing against Exiles as a whole. Some of them might have even done something to deserve it. But exile is a steep punishment, a cutting off of the very thing we thrive on. It separates us from the magic that makes us what we are. It condemns us to the slowest of deaths. It wipes us from our world and leaves us in the figurative cold of the mortal realm.
Brekken’s leafy voice brings me back. “There are many. They stalk the places that still have glamour, places with human joy or fear or lust.” She regards me with curiosity. “Will you leave?”
I don’t answer right away. Then, “I have to find a way back. I have to get back to Faerie.”
