Chapter Fifteen

The nine day trip passed in a blur. Mostly she and Artair spent their time heaving in buckets in their room, while Evan frolicked around on deck. But finally the call for land was made and Evan helped drag them out into the sun and air. The ground was near frozen over, but still the sun felt good. The horses were brought ashore, looking nearly as green as Artair and Muirgen did. They were met by a man at the docks, his hood up, shadowing his face from the cold. He half bowed, “Your majesty. Welcome. I am your guide, Joeken.”

Muirgen nodded, “Pleased to meet you. You speak our language?”

The folds of his hood moved as he nodded, “I also am your translator.”

“This is Artair, the Dragon,” she said, referring to the man on her right, “And Miss Evans, my maid.”

The man peered from his hood, but did not lower it, “Shall we?” He vaulted upon his horse, hood staying up miraculously. The land looked much the same as her own.  Miles of forest stretching out before them, but without a road they wove through the trees aimlessly. The trees were packed heavily with snow and Muirgen worried about the horses, so bare in the cold. She was not handling it well herself, her fingers turning stiff and cold. She had to keep them between her legs to keep them from not freezing off entirely. Mist wove around them in a way that seemed too thick to be natural.

“How far is the ride?” Evan asked, keeping his voice light and airy.

The hooded man tipped his head slightly to the side to examine Evan, “We should be there shortly. The Jarl has come to this town to meet you. He travels between his villages, preferring to mingle than to cage himself in a dark tower.”

Muirgen frowned at the back of the man’s head. His judgement of her was about as subtle as lightning. But Artair sent reassurance and his calm through the connection. She leaned against his chest, and felt the connection deepen. His emotions felt richer, more tangible. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to focus on the sensation, ignoring the deepening feeling of dread as they got closer to the Northmen.

She sat up quickly, eyes opening as she felt a second link, like a thin thread, pulling her forward. Goosebumps on her arms. The tree. It stretched before her, on the edge of a lake so large she could not see the end of it. It was so large the frost had barely affected it, freezing only the outer-most edge.

A single island jutted from the center of the lake, shrouded by the mist creeping around their feet and stretching out across the water. She tore her eyes from the island and back to the tree, reaching for the link again, trying to tug on it to feel what it was. It was like catching a toad. Slippery and squirming. The tree, though giant, was unremarkable in any other way. She stared at it, trying her hardest to find something unique, something that would have called her here. But as the horses carried them further away, her heart began to sink. There was nothing there. She had come for nothing. She forced her chin to point forward, staring once more at their hooded guide while trying to stifle the panic. Uthyr had been right.

The forest ended abruptly, making way for frosted, rolling hills and a fortified settlement, dark against the white. Their guide spurred his horse to go faster, now unencumbered by the restrictions of riding in the forest. Huge guards with intricately braided beards guarded the gates. As they neared, the guards pulled them open. The North people stopped what they were doing to stare at her in awe as though she were some fantastic creature. She smiled, nodding at them, but they did not return her forced joviality. 

They rode their horses through the village, and Muirgen looked around for some sort of castle or dwelling fit for the king of the jarls. There was none, just an endless sea of small huts. Finally their guide stopped at a larger hut, dismounting and handing his reins to one of the many soldiers standing in wait outside the hut.

Muirgen glanced at Evan and he nodded in reassurance. This was so different than what she had expected. No castle. Just a hut with a rounded roof. Artair helped her dismount. She glanced at the soldier who took the horse’s reins. He looked intense, savage even with bits of grass and reed woven into this hair, but he stared at her with almost disinterest. Their guide opened the door to the hut and motioned the three inside. Muirgen stayed close to Artair, the stares of too many Northmen making her heart stutter in a combination of nerves and fear. 

Inside, the hut was smoky, something roasting on a spit. Most of the smoke curled upwards, exiting through a circular grate in the round ceiling. In the main room of the hut was a few tables lined with benches. Nothing adorned the walls, but a few goblets had been discarded on the tables. Through the smoke a man came, a cape made from a bear adorning his shoulders and a golden hammer woven through twine on his chest. 

“Lotharel,” their guide said, bowing. He spoke for a few minutes in the tongue of the Northmen, then turned to Muirgen, “This is Jarl Lotharel. He has unified the clans and they have made his word law.” Muirgen raised her eyes to the jarl, watching as he assessed her. Did he know whom his people had allied with? She had no way of knowing if he did or if he was being used. 

The jarl spoke, not taking his eyes from Muirgen. She too watched him as the guide recounted what his jarl had said. “The jarl observes that you are a very attractive female, but he worries that you are too fragile for life among his people.”

Muirgen turned her dawning sneer into a smile with an extreme amount of force, “You may assure the jarl that I am no flower that wilts with the coming winter. I am strong. Stronger than I look.” Joeken relayed what she said back to the jarl, who smiled at her as a wolf smiles at a deer. He spoke once more, his face betraying none of what he was feeling. His strong jaw was covered with a giant beard that trailed the necklace he wore. The rest of his hair had been plaited, several braids running together to create one, thick, strong braid.

“The jarl says that if you desire, he will marry you tonight.”

Muirgen raised her eyebrows. Tonight. “We have not discussed terms of the treaty,” she pointed out. After listening to Joeken, the jarl nodded. He howled a command, and within moments the hut was filled with people bustling to do their lord's will. They laid a feast upon the table and brought many mugs of wine. The jarl motioned that they should sit as the servants filed out of the hut. 

He helped himself to a mug of wine, but Muirgen reached for a leg of meat, digging in with relish. It had been nine days since they had eaten anything so fresh. Aboard the ship mostly it had been molding bread, some fruits, and the dried meat they had brought. What passed as a meal to the captain did not meet her expectations in the least. The jarl lifted an eyebrow as she dug in, but she did not stop. It was too good to stop just for her pride. The jarl smiled, saying something to their guide. 

He turned to Muirgen, “The Jarl says that earlier you spoke the truth. Only a woman with great strength would have such an appetite.” In answer, she dug into a plate of boiled potatoes next, nearly moaning as the added spices hit her tongue. She forced herself to eat slowly.

A woman walked into the room, the sheer amount of gold on her person proving her to be someone of importance. She glimmered as she walked. Her long brown hair was left unbraided. As she walked toward them, Muirgen admired the woolen dress embroidered with gold knots and flowers. Practical but striking. Muirgen shoved a stalk of broccoli into her mouth. She was going to have to tell Dain about it, because she needed dresses like this.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” she said, her voice musical, “But I wanted to meet the ones that have the entire village buzzing with speculation and interest.”

“You speak our language?” Artair asked, leaning forward.

The woman nodded, taking a seat beside Jarl Lotharel. “I learned it long ago.” She cast her eyes at Joeken, “Your services are no longer needed.” Their guide, still hooded, nodded and left the hut. She smiled at the group, “My name is Gwenhwyfar, yours?”

“Muirgen, Artair, and my maid, Miss Evans,” Muirgen volunteered. She snuck a glance at Artair, irritated at the slack-jawed look on his face. She was…gorgeous, but he could have at least tried to hide it. She was, after all, the enemy.

“You came to make a treaty, did you not?” she asked, pouring herself a goblet of wine. Muirgen flicked her eyes to Lotharel. He sat quietly, allowing her to have a conversation with them that he could not possibly understand. He must trust her a great deal. She moved her eyes back to Gwenhwyfar. With her darker looks she could not possibly be Lotharel’s sister. They looked nothing alike.  Where Gwenhwyfar was soft, serene, and fair, Lotharel was hard, jagged, and unyielding.

Muirgen nodded, “We did. We do not want war with your people. We only wish for peace.”

She nodded solemnly, “I understand. I, myself, have lost loved ones to this fight.” Her eyes were sad, but she rallied, “I am glad that the Jarl is willing to forge ties with your people so we can live as one.” Muirgen nodded, her mouth sour. Never. That would never happen. “What is it you would request as part of the treaty?”

Muirgen nodded, pasting a smile on her face. She hadn’t thought about bargaining. She hadn’t thought the treaty would progress so quickly. After taking a drink of the wine to wet her mouth, she said, “I would request that the raids end. It would be best that our people keep to their own shores, but for those who wish to relocate I think an option should be made available.” She took another sip. What else? What else needed to say. She took a longer sip. What would Uthyr say? “I would need to appoint a regent to rule in my stead if we are to occupy your lands. Any offspring between us should inherit both lands and the peace will go on as long as our line does.” She took another sip, her hands shaking. She didn’t want to do this. This wasn’t the plan. She had expected the Northmen to scream at her when she arrived, readying their battle axes. She had expected their disdain. And she honestly was surprised they had not been attacked yet. What were the fae waiting for?

“The jarl believes he might be able to encourage his men to raid elsewhere,” Gwenhwyfar said slowly, tipping her golden eyes on Artair once more before returning to Muirgen. “The jarl is charitable and understanding, but his warriors demand the gold, and if he does not allow them to quest for it, they will grow weary of his rule.” She tilted her head, “A Jarl without the support of his people is not Jarl.” She spoke to Lotharel, then nodded. “The Jarl says that if you were to send a tithe a deal could be struck and a treaty could be signed.”

She raised an eyebrow. “How much gold?”

Gwenhwyfar folded her hands. Muirgen watched them with unease. There was something about Gwenhwyfar that made Muirgen's skin crawl. “If you sent over a tenth of your kingdom’s gold each year, his warriors would be pleased.”

Muirgen leaned back with a sigh. A tenth. It was ridiculous, and clearly more than the Northmen were taking now. But it was her way out of these negotiations. “A tenth is a lot of money,” she said slowly. “I may be able to get the council to agree to that, but they will not be happy.” She allowed her eyes to travel over the jarl’s face, “Much like your Jarl, if my people are not happy, I cease to be queen.” She stabbed another potato, “I would have to send a letter and await their reply.” She again turned regretful eyes on the jarl, “This would delay our union, but if we could create a treaty, I think it would benefit all.”

“And you would stay here until you receive your council’s answer?” Gwenhwyfar asked. Muirgen nodded, turning back to the food in front of her. Gwenhwyfar relayed the information to the jarl who after some consideration nodded in agreement. Gwenhwyfar nodded, smiling. “You will be given lodging until you receive your answer, and our hospitality.” She stood, “Please, come this way. I will show you to the rooms you can use.”

They followed her out of the hut, the night near silent. The warriors had left their posts, and no one was outside. A few of the huts burned with inner light.  Gwenhwyfar led them to a hut, opening the door and ushering them inside. In moments she had a fire burning in the center of the room.  She turned eyes on Evan, “You’ll want to climb atop the roof and remove the grate cover.” Evan nodded, leaving to attend to his task.

Gwenhwyfar turned, bowing her head gracefully, “If you still are hungry or wish for companionship, feel free to come back and join us for dinner. Otherwise, we will see you in the morning.” She turned to Muirgen with a soft smile, “Pleasant dreams.”

She left, and Muirgen set about exploring the hut. Artair stayed by the door, staring at it as though he were struck by some spell. The hut had two rooms that branched off from the main sitting area. Both were as bleak as the main area. Nothing hanging on the walls. The beds were covered with a blanket made from the furs of several animals stitched together. It would be warm and practical, but it still felt so odd compared to her own life. No paintings, no tapestries, so candles, no books. It was a cold, hard land and the people seemed just as cold and hard.

Her things had been placed on the bed, like they knew she would be staying. Artair was standing in the doorway as she looked up. “I’m still a bit hungry. I think I’ll go eat some more.” Then he turned on his heel, not waiting for a reply before heading out the door of the hut.

Evan came back in, looking over the room with mild distaste, “Where is he going?”

“To eat some more with Gwenhwyfar,” Muirgen said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Evan joined her, “What is wrong?”

“This was a bad idea,” she whispered.

Evan shrugged, “I think it’s going better than planned. No one has attacked us yet. The jarl seems to be…decent.”

She shot him a look to shut up, which he did without further comment. They sat there in silence, finally she asked, “What do you think of Gwenhwyfar?”

Evan shrugged lightly, “There feels…something off about her.”

Muirgen nodded, "I felt it too. But I can't figure out why I feel that way."

Evan shrugged, “Why were we assigned a translator if she can speak our language?” He stood up, pacing, “Joeken looked startled when Gwenhwyfar came into the room. As if he wasn’t expecting her.”

Someone knocked on the door to their hut and Muirgen rose from the bed, but Evan shook his head, removing one of the daggers from his hidden stash and moving towards the door. She stepped out of the room just in time to see Evan invite someone inside, his hood drawn up. When the door closed Joeken threw his hood back.

Muirgen frowned, “You’re Joeken?”

The Bard reappeared at her side, covering her mouth with a hand. “Speak softly if you must speak at all,” he whispered. Evan was at her side a moment later, tearing the bard from her.

Muirgen placed a hand on Evan's arm, “It’s okay.”

“You are in danger,” the Bard whispered, “You were never supposed to come here.”

“In danger from whom?” she whispered back. The Bard raised an eyebrow and her skin puckered in fear. The fae. He looked at Evan, then back at Muirgen, “Where is the Dragon?”

“He went to eat with Gwenhwyfar.”

The Bard’s face drained of color. “Gwenhwyfar? No.” He whirled on Muirgen, “How long ago did he leave?”

She shrugged, trying to measure the time, “Several minutes ago.”

The Bard grabbed her arm, dragging her further into the room, “You must leave. Now.” He stared at the back wall of her room. “Inside and shut the door,” he instructed Evan. Evan glanced at Muirgen and she nodded in agreement. The Bard taped a few times on the wall, then licked it before straightening. “You two will have moments. Moments only.” He turned his eyes to Evan, “It is not likely you will be able to outrun them.” He turned to Muirgen, “And you must not try to hold back. Even with the piece you are slower than them. If you must, you will leave him behind.”

Muirgen turned panicked eyes on Evan, then back to the Bard, “What about Artair?”

“If Gwenhwyfar has the Dragon, he is lost,” the Bard said, “I am sorry.”

Muirgen shook her head, “No. We can get him. I can go…”

The Bard cut her off, “Gwenhwyfar will be delving into his mind now, searching for the answers she seeks. Once she finds it, she will cut the piece out of Artair and come for you. You cannot save him now.”

Evan was so confused, he could barely form words, “What…why…what?”

The Bard turned cold eyes to Evan, “I apologize, but since you are unlikely to last the night, I will not waste time divulging information that you will have a hard time even grasping.” He turned to Muirgen, “Now. Here is what will happen. I will open this wall. You will run to the lake. To the tree.” He paused, examining her face, “Yes, you know the one. Good.” He paused, licking his lips, “I will stay to hold them off. It will not take them long to overpower me.” He took Muirgen’s hands, “You know I cannot explain, not fully, but I do not have time to save a record of what has happened here today. You will see me again, but I will not remember you. If you say my true name, I will know that we know each other. You can tell me what happened tonight.” She nodded slowly, not quite understanding. “Now, to the tree!” He walked to the wall, whispering a few words under his breath before shoving the wall. The wall burst outwards, shattering into the night. “Run!” the Bard roared.

“Your name?” she yelled back at him as Evan started forward.

“Merlin,” he said, smiling, throwing off his cloak and readying his hands, “Now run!” Evan was already through the hole in the wall, and Muirgen sprinted forward, picking up her dress so her legs could move more freely. Behind them flashes of light lit the darkness and screams sent chills up her spine.

“We have to move faster,” she whispered. In response Evan ran into a tree. She blinked twice, suddenly realizing he couldn’t see as well as she could. She helped pull him up, but he pulled away from her, “He said you had to leave me behind. To run faster than me.”

She shook her head stubbornly, “I’m not leaving you.”

Evan stood up, shaking his head, “Yes. You are. I don’t know what is going on. But you go. He said I would die tonight anyway. At least I can try to do something better than running away. I’ll get Artair out. I’ll get him far away from here. But you have to run.”

Muirgen glanced at the hut, more people screaming as it went up in flames. Finally she nodded, “Thank you.”

He nodded, “It was an honor serving you, my queen.” Then with a quick bow, he headed off, against the line of houses toward the hut they first had been brought to. Muirgen threw herself forward, tapping into the magic of the piece inside her. There was a hut close to the fortified wall of the village.  She surged forward, allowing the piece to push her mortal body forward with a speed no mortal could attain. She found the ladder leading to the roof and scrambled onto the roof, past the fire grate and vaulted over the wall. She tried to roll when she landed to lessen the blow, but cried out in pain as her left foot hit the ground too hard.

She bit her lip, forcing herself onward. She had to get to the tree. As she neared the forest she turned, just in time to watch several shapes vaulting much more gracefully over the wall than she had. Pain spiked up her leg with every step, but still she threw one foot after the other until she hit the frozen water’s edge. She turned frantically, trying to figure out where she was and where she had seen the tree. Choking back a sob, she chose right. At least it would take her further from whoever was pursuing her. As she ran along the shore’s edge she could hear the footfalls of those behind her. Terrified, she tried to make herself go faster, but it was no use. Through the trees she glimpsed a thick tree, too large and gnarled to be anything other than the tree she wanted. She pushed forward, but was suddenly dragged back, one of her followers yanking on her loose braid. She cried out, falling backwards as three circled her.

Muirgen rolled to her feet, drawing her weapon, her heart beating so fast she thought it would explode. They lunged at her and she half screamed, half choked as the flem from her fright caught in her throat. She lashed out with the knife, desperately trying to remember her training. She was smaller. Slower. Weaker. So she had to be smarter. But even with the additional help the piece was giving her, she could barely see them. And she didn’t know how to kill a fae. She stumbled forward, hacking at the nearest shadowy fae. They hissed in irritation, and one grabbed her by the neck, lifting her face to meet its face. Her feet dangled in the air, and she dropped her knife so she could keep her body weight from causing her neck to break in the fae’s grasp.

She gasped for air, clawing at its hands in a weakening effort to make it let her go. She stared at the trunk of the tree just a few feet away and kicked at the fae as her sight started to go dark. With a roar, it let her go and she fell to the ground, gasping for air. Her eyes still spotted, her breathing too loud in her ears, but she could still slightly hear the battle around her.

“Artair, run,” she whispered as he picked her up. But he ignored her, carrying her toward the tree as she focused on her breathing, black spots swimming before her eyes.

He spoke a few quiet words, placing a hand on the tree. Muirgen brought her eyes to the man’s face, it wasn't Artiar. He wore a mask, his green velvet hood pulled up so she couldn’t even see his hair.

He stepped into the tree and Muirgen clung to him in terror. He set her down on a couch and she immediately put her head between her legs. She was going to be sick. After a few moments the feeling passed and she peered at the man, finding the fact that she couldn’t see his face very unnerving.  “Who are you?” she asked.

He removed his mask, the hood falling back. Ageless green eyes stared at her, set behind fierce blonde brows that matched his hair, left unplaided. “Fynais,” he said, “And yours?”

“Muirgen,” she answered, looking around. The tiny room had little but a couch. And no door. She suddenly felt sick again. Through the tree. They had gone through it. She stared at Fynais.

“You’re a fairy,” she whispered, terrified.

He nodded, “Yes.”

“What do you want from me?” she asked, feeling for her hidden dagger. Then it came crashing back to her, she had tried to use it against her pursuers and had dropped it.

He smiled, “You were in danger; I helped.”

She frowned at him, “Why?”

Fynais shook his head, “Not all of us wish you harm.” The mist began to seep into the tree and he offered her his hand, which she declined, standing herself.

“What is this place?” she asked as the mist rose to her waist, swirling so thickly she couldn’t see her feet.

“It’s the in-between,” he said, unconcerned as the mist continued to rise. “So you don’t get lost in the mist, you should take my hand.” He held out a velvet gloved hand and she took it, fearing whatever magic was causing the mist more than him at the moment. She stared at their hands, the feeling of his velvet gloves sparking some a memory in her, but like the mist it was intangible. The mist closed over their heads and he led her forward, slowly at first, then more quickly.

She kept expecting to bump into the tree trunk, but they walked for several minutes and nothing happened. Finally the mist began to dissipate. She stood on green grass, which was odd because everything in the north was frozen. Before her stretched a vast forest and a path that led through it.

“Shall we?” Fynais asked. Muirgen looked at him, then the path before her.

“Where does that lead?” she asked, disappointed in herself as her voice tremored a bit.

“To my home,” he said calmly. She frowned at him. Everything about him, his voice, his movements, even his words were carefully thought out to not scare her, which just made her suspicious. “You’ll be safe there, I promise,” he said, and although she believed him, she did not care to go.

“I’d like to return to my own home, thank you. Now. Not in 300 years. I’ve read the stories.”

Fynais sighed. “I can’t let you go back, Muirgen. Gwenhwyfar’s men are still looking for you, and the Merlin gave his life so you could find me. Isn’t that at least worth coming with me, if only for a little while?”

She turned to look at the path, then nodded slowly. For a while they walked along the path. It was odd walking through a forest with no animals, and it was even odder that Fynais’ footsteps didn’t make a sound. The sound of her tromping feet were her only company. The trees cleared and a fortress of stone high on the hill greeted them. By the time they made it to the top of the hill her legs were killing her.

The gate opened for them, though she could see no one managing the levers and Fynais did nothing she could see. They walked through, the gate closing behind them, trapping them in an empty courtyard.

“Do you live here alone?” she asked, looking around for signs of any other fae.

He shook his head, motioning her along, “You’ll meet the others soon enough.” He pushed open the door to the castle and she peered inside with trepidation. The hallway inside was dark, but seemingly uninhabited. As she stepped in through the threshold all of the candles in the room went on at the same time. She jumped backwards, but Fynais was in her way, blocking her exit. The door shut behind him and she moved away. “You’ll find your room upstairs,” he said motioning to the grand staircase to her left. “Take however much time you need. Sleep, bathe, and look around. I’ll be waiting for you in the dining room when you are ready to eat. And talk.” Then he strode down the hall, unclasping his cape and tossing it over a suit of armor before disappearing around a corner.

Muirgen watched to make sure he wouldn’t return, then slowly walked up the staircase. It let off into a landing and she walked down a hallway with so many rooms she had no idea how she was supposed to know which was meant for her. Just before she decided to turn around and ask Fynais which room he had meant, one of the doors swung open. She stuck her head in, surprised at the room. There was a large bed with comfortable coverings and a sweeping canopy for privacy. She stepped inside and the door shut behind her, thankfully staying unlocked. Further into the room she found a bath being prepared with hot water. She stood at the tub, watching in mixed horror and fascination as bucket after bucket of water was added. Moving back to the door, she threw the lock and undressed, leaving her dirty, torn clothes on the floor. She settled into the tub, groaning in pleasure. Moments later someone touched the top of her head, and she whirled around to find no one there. Again the touch came, a simple pat pushing her down a bit. Muirgen clawed at her hair, trying to find the source of the feeling, but could find nothing.

The hand came again, this time more forcefully pushing so her head went under the water. She came up sputtering, and whirled around. A soap bottle drifted in mid-air and Muirgen bit the inside of her cheek, trying to remain calm. The bottle tipped over her head, a healthy amount of soap drenching the top of her head. The fingers went back in her hair, but this time they scrubbed and moved the soap around. Eventually she leaned back, allowing herself to enjoy whatever was helping her wash. Next they helped her soap up her skin, scraping off a fortnight of grime. The hands lifted her out of the tub and she stood shivering while the water disappeared and slowly reappeared. Then two hands on her back pushed her forward to get back in the tub. She grimaced. She must really be filthy.

This time the hands focusing on rubbing the knots out of her back. When she was ready to get out, the hands helped her stand steady so she wouldn’t slip on the stone floor. With a gust of hot wind, she was instantly dried, though her hair still was damp. The hot wind moved to her hair, the fingers working through her tangles.

A fine, green silk robe floated toward her and she wrapped it around her body, tying it off at her waist. The doors to a balcony opened and the invisible hands took one of hers and dragged her toward the balcony. The sun was not high in the sky, but was drifting toward it. The hands pushed her into a padded chair and began plaiting her hair. As they worked, she looked around, surprised at how peaceful and calm she felt. With a spike of guilt she closed her eyes, thinking of Artair and Evan. They had died and she was here, enjoying a bath. The hands threw her braid over her shoulder when done. Then the hands helped her up, leading her to the bed. They drew back the covers and as she snuggled up in the sheets they slid the canopy closed, blocking any light from her view. Gratefully she slipped into sleep.