All That Glows

Twenty-Eight

The spell jerks me out of my drowsy state. I sit up in the bed, careful not to disturb Richard’s arm draped over my waist. He’s asleep, lulled by the fat raindrops skating across the window. The sound is peaceful, soothing—almost enough to make me forget the trouble that comes with the storm.

The sealing spell on my letter has been opened, torn by Mab’s hand. Cool air and relief flood my lungs. My messenger wasn’t intercepted. The ravens’ words got through. Now all I have to do is wait for the response. She’ll send it to Windsor. That’s where she’ll expect us, now that London has been compromised.

I look down at Richard. With the windows’ drapes drawn, he’s barely visible. Only the accented lines of his face rise up from the whiteness of his pillow. Half of it’s covered in lengthening hair. My fingers twitch, fighting the urge to brush it away. I must let him sleep while he can.

I lean back down and focus on the weight of his arm over my waist. This night has been a long one, filled with clamoring, avian prophecies and what I’ve done to Breena. My mind has been everywhere except with Richard, because I know what must be done. Time is running out for both of us.

There is no more middle ground. Only two separate paths.

The first is long and lonely, crowded with Fae, magic, and eternity. Sickness and slow decay. It stretches on and on. No end in sight.

The second path is much shorter. A single life. With Richard and all he’s come to mean to me. Without the yawning emptiness. Without power. And a few leagues away there’s a great blinding light, swallowing the path. The end.

After I made the choice to follow Mab, to look like one of them, I started on this road. I was always supposed to end up here, at this fork. For so many decades of queens, battles, and ballrooms, my humanness has been sprouting, pushing, and growing through so many tough, gravelly layers of Fae. Waiting for its exact moment to bloom.

I look at Richard, so peaceful and unaware of the civil war inside me. The fears tangled with silent, nagging doubts. Will Richard always love me? What if he can’t stay away from the bottle? Will this end as disastrous as the crumbling of Camelot?

No. Richard isn’t Arthur, and I’m certainly not Guinevere. We’re our own story.

But if he breaks my heart, breaks me . . .

This thought—full of dark debris—makes me shudder. Is the beauty worth the risk? Is the threat of brokenness worth the possibility of becoming whole?

Richard wriggles beside me and gives an unusually loud snore. Sleep has always been a thing of curiosity for immortals. That something could make the humans and the animals so powerless and unaware, but grant them visions and dreams of things to come, has always baffled us. Many Fae have even tried to dream—but the gift was never meant for us.

I stare back up into the blackness of the ceiling, watching the two roads in my mind’s eye. My heart is torn no matter which way I choose. But in the end I have to take the step. I can’t stay at these crossroads forever.

The air’s different here. I feel it even through the car’s thick glass windows. We’re barely outside the city, not even free of the identical lines of row houses, but the change is obvious, lifting the sickness and charging newness through my veins. I feel like thrusting my head out the window and letting my hair flow like phoenix fire, wild and free. But I’m sitting next to Anabelle and very visible, so I just sit and watch the trees fly past in blurs of green.

The houses grow fewer and the trees herd into dark, lush groups as we get closer to Windsor. The castle straddles these two worlds. One side looks over the accordion rows of shops and houses in its namesake city. Another, broader side watches over the tamed foliage of the Great Park. Herne’s territory. My eyes stay locked on the distant tree line as the car wheels up to the castle. Herne is here. I feel him.

He feels the royals’ presence as well. Change seizes the air, though whether it’s good or bad, I can’t say.

Anabelle slides out of the car after me, and Breena follows, her face made of complete fury. I’m surprised she came and even more astonished that the entire Guard caravanned with us to Windsor. The other Fae gave me strange looks when they realized my veiling spell was completely gone, but none of them said anything. My rank is too high for any of them to reproach me as Breena did. My old friend doesn’t speak a word. She uses Anabelle as an unwitting shield; every time I look at my friend I seem to be staring at the princess.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Anabelle’s arm sweeps out, presenting walls of weathered gray, their elegantly arched windows rimmed with yellow Bath stone. Beyond all this, the greenness of summer plays out in Herne’s woods. “We should go riding around the Great Park. There’s plenty of time before brunch.”

“Sounds lovely.” My stomach stirs, not with nausea, but from the thought of going into Herne’s territory so soon. Getting permission to stay on his land is one thing. Pleading his help against an Old One is far more nerve-wracking.

The castle rooms are time capsules of crimson drapes, Jacobean furniture, and flourishing, gold-leafed ceilings. Impressive, but stifling. After such a fresh breath of air and trees, the last thing I want to do is sit behind four walls.

“We might run into Herne,” I warn Richard as he changes into more casual jeans and a band T-shirt. “You won’t be able to see him. But he’ll want to talk to me. Or Breena,” I add, unable to hide my wince. “Could you find some way to distract Anabelle?”

“That shouldn’t be hard. What about Herne? Do you think he’ll help us?”

“Herne—” I’m gnawing my lip, trying to think of how to contain such a massive spirit into words. “Herne isn’t bound by any rules, only the ones he makes for himself. He’s only loyal to his forest. I can’t say what his answer will be, but he’s been willing to work with Mab before.”

“Sounds like a wild card.”

Richard smiles, and for a moment I forget all about the minutes ahead.

He reaches out, weaves his hand into mine, and nods at the door. “Shall we?”

Remnants of fear from my last encounter with Herne buzz through me, sapping the sunlight of our moment together. I try my hardest not to shudder. I can’t let anyone know I’m afraid. Not Richard, not Breena, and especially not Herne.

At the stables, our horses are tacked and ready to go. I mount my ride quickly, without help from Richard or the surprised groom. Compared to Kelpies, the hefty black mare feels like a Shetland pony.

Anabelle rides up on a petite and delicate bay. She smiles. It seems she’s warming up to me, if only a little. “If we try, we might be able see most of the park today.”

“And then what will you do for the rest of the week?” Richard asks, wheeling around us on his tightly wound roan. “You might want to save it. Besides, it’s getting pretty hot.”

His sister dismisses him with a laugh. “Listen to you talking all sensibly.” Her horse ambles close to mine so that I can hear her whisper, “There was a time when he was real wanker. It wasn’t that long ago actually.”

I try my hardest to act surprised. “Richard? No!”

Breena’s snicker rises from behind us.

The princess continues to chat while we trot down the path, launching into several embarrassing childhood stories featuring Richard. I pretend to laugh and nod, but my eyes never leave the weaving tangle of trees. They’re old, much older than the sidewalk sprouts of London, and they’re moving. The stir isn’t just in their leaves and smooth, windswept branches, but in their core. Where the Dryads live, awake, alert, and watching.

We ride for half an hour down the groomed trail, watched by countless silent trees. Breath abandons my lungs when we reach the end of the Long Walk and continue. Trees close in around us, pulling us into the heart of Herne’s thick woods. The mare senses my great unease, her hooves grow jumpy, and crescent-white fear enters her eyes. The trees have stopped their slow, whispering movements. They’re dead still. The reason is soon clear.

He stands on the path in front of us, his giant mount and his twin horns casting no shadow. I let my horse fall still with the others, too spooked to continue. Some deep, animal part of them knows that edgy, dangerous magic stands ahead.

“Come on, girl!” Anabelle digs her heels into her horse, but the bay keens, high and nail curling.

“Something’s spooking the horses,” Richard tells her with a quick glance at me. “Maybe we should choose another way.”

Herne remains motionless. An untrained eye might mistake him for a grotesque cast-iron figure. He speaks. The words rumble across the space between us, their very sound exuding power. “So it’s you, woodling. I never forget a pretty face.”

I watch him, bound to silence by Anabelle’s presence. The princess is entirely oblivious, distracted by her horse’s breakdown.

“You’ve chosen to reveal yourself to the mortals?” Herne’s head tilts, his lead-sharp horns skewering the empty space between leaves. “How odd.”

My lips stay sealed as I glance at Richard. The king is staring at the path, his sight going straight past Herne’s fearsome form. The powerful Lord of the Wood nudges his mount a step closer. The royals’ horses back away nervously, only my mare holds her ground.

“You have something to ask of me. I sense it. Tell me, what does your kind want now, youngling?” Herne’s voice, closer and more terrible than before, causes my horse to shake and sweat beneath me. There’s a bitter edge to it that makes my fingers coil.

We’ve come to ask for your protection.

Herne is silent. His eyes continue to burn into my skin like the bright orange end of a cigarette. I begin to wonder if he even heard my thought.

“You speak of what stirs in the north,” he says finally.

Yes. It’s coming for them. It wants to destroy the crown.

“What’s wrong with you?!” Anabelle’s face flushes bright as she digs her heels into equine muscles. Her hair has come unclipped, pouring gold like olive oil across her cheeks.

“And you wish me to protect them?” Herne finishes my thoughts for me. “Your queen thinks she can use me like a mercenary? As a bodyguard for hire? I follow no one. Not even your precious Queen Mab. It wasn’t enough for me to grant her the use of my land, she thinks she can demand my powers as well.”

I stiffen, barely able to move. What’s Herne talking about?

The confusion must be painted clearly on my face, since Herne’s response is quick, aggravated. “Mab has already asked—no—demanded my aid. As if I were a hound suited to answer her horn.”

I cringe, slouch closer to my horse’s neck. Mab, out of desperation or some false sense of strength, had tried to command Herne. Rage rolls, full of sear and char, off the spirit’s aura. Slowly, inevitably I see our chances of survival slipping away. . . .

“Do you know why this is happening, little woodling? Why this force is rising? Perhaps you are too young to realize this, but the mortals have become too strong, too forgetful of the old ways. They’ve managed to destroy most of Albion with their machines. They are eating the land, killing our magic. Perhaps it’s better that we stop them. I cannot say. But I will not raise my hand against them. They’ve done me no wrong.” He nods toward Richard and his sister.

But the crown and the blood magic. It’s what holds Albion together!

“I swore no oath to Pendragon. That was your precious queen.” His voice rises, shaking the deepest marrow in my bones. “Now be gone. And bring no trouble to my woods!”

Herne’s giant charcoal horse turns and vanishes in the wink of an eye. The faint green afterglow of the woodlord’s shape stays in my vision. It gradually vanishes as I blink, trying to process all of his words. The Old One is coming and there’s nothing we can to do stop her.

I gasp as the air leaves my throat, leaving room for the settling shock.

Anabelle looks up at the sound, her face a mess of blonde and half-forgotten annoyance. “Emrys, are you all right?”

“I—I—” I struggle, fight for every new breath. It feels like my body simply doesn’t want the air anymore. “I don’t feel well. I think maybe I should go back to the castle and rest for a while.”

Richard’s face turns paler than the spots of sunlight falling on it. “I’ll go with you.”

“I’ll come too. It’s no fun riding alone.”

Richard’s mouth pulls tight. He’s unhappy with his sister’s company. It’s just as well. If I can’t even process the truth myself, how am I supposed to tell him?

“You shouldn’t have counted on Herne.”

I jump at the voice, look down. Breena is close to my knee, keeping up with my horse’s every stride. Her face is calm, collected—the exact opposite of my churning insides. There’s no smugness in her blue gaze, just the solid knowledge that, in the end, she was right.

Why would Mab try to command Herne? She should’ve known he would get angry. . . .

“I’m sure she was only doing what she thought was best. There’s still time to leave for Balmoral. We don’t have to stay here.”

The mare’s jerky trot jars my backbone. I wish it would rattle my thoughts too. Then maybe I would be able to say something useful.

We’d be going in blind. There’s no way of knowing how many soul feeders are between here and there. We should wait for Mab’s response.

Breena’s silence tells me I’m right.

I shut my eyes, trusting the mare to follow the other horses back to the stables. Not all’s lost, I shouldn’t think like it is. The Old One’s strength is still untested and Mab’s help should arrive soon. I manage to keep my face blank all the way back to the stables.

“We’ll wait for Mab’s response,” Breena agrees once I slide out of the saddle, my skin zipping fast down polished leather. “It should be back by this evening, yes?”

Maybe sooner. Even my thoughts feel numb.

“I’ll have the others start preparing the defenses. Four days isn’t much time.”

I’m dizzy, I realize as I walk away from the horse. Herne’s denial was a bigger shock than I was ready for. I reach out for a stall door, try to steady myself against bars of unyielding iron. Instead, support comes from behind as Richard’s hands wrap, warm and solid, around my shoulders.

“Are you okay?” he whispers into my ear, and guides me to the stable’s bright, airy entrance.

I stare at the ground, at the scuffed edges of Richard’s riding boots. What can I tell him? The one hope I had, my last resort, just rode away on his high black horse.

“What’s wrong?” Anabelle is next to us, winding her hair up into a wispless ballet bun. Right now, if I could talk, I would tell her that it looks better down.

“She doesn’t feel well. Stomachache,” Richard says. “I think I’ll take her to lie down.”

“Anything I can do?” his sister offers.

“No need.” Richard shakes his head. “We’ll see you at dinner.”

He guides me through the twists and turns of the castle. Windsor is the same as I’ve always remembered it, but I can only trail Richard’s gentle steps like a reluctant child. My limbs have lost the power to move of their own will. I follow him, feet slow and dragging, into the bedroom.

“I’m fine.”

“At least sit down. What happened? Did you see Herne?”

I have a seat on the bed, clutching the comforter’s fabric in both hands. “He said no.”

Richard’s eyes don’t move. I wait for the panic to creep into them, but it never appears. His stare stays steady.

“He doesn’t want to help us,” I go on. “He says spirits have a right to be upset because of all the machines the mortals have created and how the forests are being destroyed. He thinks your death might be a good thing, because it’ll strengthen magic and help the Fae live on.”

Anger simmers, burns slow in my veins as I speak. By the end, I’m shaking.

“And what do you think?” Richard’s voice is stable, as unmoving as a monk in meditation. Compared to him, I’m an unraveled, childish mess.

I take a breath, the air leaks out of me slowly as I regain perspective and a tiny sliver of calmness. “He’s a selfish arse, but he has a point. The Fae are unhappy with the world as it is. Some of us, like the Guard, have learned to adapt. But others, especially the older ones, can’t stand to see magic falling apart. The Old One that’s after you wants everything reversed. My guess is she wants Albion like it was long ago, before machines and mortals. The others want power too. They don’t want to hide anymore.”

Richard’s quiet, buried in the depth of his thoughts.

“If you weren’t bound by Mab’s oath to protect the crown, what side would you choose?” he asks finally.

“It’d be nice not to be sick all the time,” I mutter. “But that’s hardly a reason to justify what they plan to do. Mortals and Fae coexisted happily long before the machines came along.”

“So there’s a happy medium.”

“I don’t know where or how—but yes. There has to be. It would change England forever in the eyes of the world. You would no longer have cars or lifts.” I stop. How silly to be arguing about machinery when our lives are at stake.

“But we would have magic.” He stands from the bed. The mattress springs up, tossing me like a wave. “I want to talk to Herne.”

“What?” I stare at him. He means what he says.

“Herne. I want to speak with him. Is that possible?”

“I don’t—only if he wants to show himself to you. It won’t do any good though.”

Richard’s arms fold over his chest. The veins in his forearms bulge, making crisscross formations beneath his skin. “I want to try. Can you take me to him?”

Visions of Herne in his primal wrath tear through my mind and, with them, panic. “You don’t have to prove anything, Richard! We’ll figure out something else. . . .”

He shakes his head. “I’m king now, Emrys. He might not listen to me, but he’ll respect me. I have to try.”

There’s no telling what Herne might do, though I can see there’s no changing Richard’s mind. “We should wait a while. If we approach him again so soon, he’ll just be irritated.”

“After dinner, then?”

I nod, trying my hardest not to show how my insides are unraveling, looping apart with fear. Herne made it quite clear that he didn’t want to be bothered again. And forces like Herne the Hunter shouldn’t be dealt with lightly.

“We’ll get through this, you know.” Richard kneels down, touches his nose to mine. “Just have a little faith. Trust me.”

My eyes close. I feel the time slipping over us, passing second by second. Grain by grain. Soon, very soon, we will run out, be smothered by the sand at the bottom of the hourglass.

I should tell him how I feel. But the moment is wrong, tainted by so much doom and darkness.

“I do,” I whisper. “I do trust you. It’s just that—”

He breaks off my words with a kiss, hands tangling through my hair. I let his lips take me away. Away from the worry. Away from the time we no longer have. I lose myself in him until the fire springs between us. Richard draws back, reluctant and slow, breath sharp like raining arrows.

“You’ve done so much to protect me. It’s my turn now.” He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, his thumb ghosting across my cheek. “Let me do this for you. For us.”

Everything about him speaks confidence. His touch, his voice, the hint of a smile on his lips. If only it were so easy for me.