“It’s safe,” Morgan whispered in the dark.
A black cloth was pulled away from a lantern, casting a flickering orange glow across a sea of faces. Bodies of all shapes and sizes huddled on the floor or sat against the jagged walls. There were at least a hundred, maybe more. The cave was low but wide and reached beyond the light into distant chambers. Nimue’s breath left her. They were all Fey Kind. They were all her people, and all were refugees from Carden’s pyres.
Her voice choked as she tried to say, “They’re so beautiful.” It was a painful yet inspiring homecoming to a place she’d never been, to a family she’d never known. Some of the clans were so rare that Nimue had never seen them before. Clans like the shy Cliff Walkers—mountain folk, the men wearing thick helms of ram horn and the women with intricate scar patterns of interlocking circles on their arms. Or the Snakes—who worshipped the night and lived in floating huts on the glade rivers. Their children hid beneath capes of rat skins, and the men and women peered out from masks of stretched bat wings, their faces painted with guano. Storm Crafters were tattooed head to toe and reputed for their rain summoning, while the Moon Wings communed with night birds and were blood enemies of the Snakes. Their young lived in the forest canopy, in rookeries, for ten years before their feet touched earth. One of the children stroked the head of an enormous gray owl as she stared at Nimue with fierce, suspicious eyes. The Tusks worshipped the boar and were equally hot-tempered. Fauns wore antlers, rode giant bucks as mounts, and were outstanding archers. There were even Plogs, tunnel dwellers, who had evolved to lives of perpetual darkness and labor. Their hands were two-fingered, thick, clawed, and calloused, and most were blind. They were the stuff of Fey child nightmares, though Lenore had taught Nimue that the Plogs were shy creatures who preferred grubs and roots to flesh.
There were still more from clans that Nimue did not recognize. It was all so overwhelming. Add in the combination of the confining cave walls, the warmth and thick air, the fear, and the exhaustion; Nimue swayed, and Morgan had to steady her to prevent her from falling.
Morgan and Arthur led her down a series of tunnels until they reached a small alcove with room for a straw mat and a lantern. Nimue’s fists were wrapped tightly around the grip of the sword as she allowed herself to be guided down to the mat. As her eyes closed, she felt herself being swept into a deep and alluring darkness.
She dreamt of fire.
Nimue’s eyes popped open. The first thing she saw was Arthur seated against the wall, studying the maps they had stolen from the Red Paladins. He looked up at her.
“You slept almost two days,” he told her.
Nimue slapped the ground around her. “The sword.” She searched frantically. “Where is the sword?”
“Relax, we’re okay. It’s here.” Arthur showed her a nook in the rock beside her straw mat. Inside was the Sword of Power, wrapped in a cloth. Nimue calmed at the sight of it, though her head was foggy with images from her dreams, curious yet frightening faces staring at her from the darkness.
“I’m glad you’re up. They don’t really like me here. ‘Man blood’ and all.”
“They shouldn’t call you that. My mother never allowed it.”
Arthur nodded. “I’m just too human, I suppose. No wings or antlers. I can’t say I blame the poor wretches, what they’ve been through. Oh, and you should be prepared.”
Nimue frowned. “For what?”
“You’ll see.”
She stood up and swept the dirt and straw from her ragged trousers. Together they walked down a long, narrow tunnel that led into a wide, bowl-shaped cavern, partially open to the sky, through which the forest had invaded: fallen trees, gnarled roots, and mossy boulders created a sloping bridge to the outside world.
Nimue marveled at the Fey community that had arisen here as the refugees tried to create a semblance of normal life. The cavern had been divided into tribal areas. Territories were staked throughout the caves. Tusks huddled together, fashioning their unique bone weapons, while high up in the walls, Storm Crafters hung their air beds, and Snakes threw up their unnerving skin tents to avoid contact altogether.
A pall of misery hung over the caves. More than once she had to watch her step for the sick, the old, and the wounded. They crowded the floors, eyes weak and fearful. The caves were a hive of activity as Fey Kind hauled water and baskets of gathered roots and raided vegetables, hung clothes, tended the wounded, and moved the sick to more isolated areas for fear of outbreaks. Even still Nimue could see that provisions were scarce. The cave had an unmistakable edge of tension. She saw a shoving match across the way between Tusks and Snakes. It was broken up quickly, but without enough to eat, tribal and territory minds would eventually take over. It was only a matter of time. She could see that.
Unlike their elders, the Fey children played together, and their laughter was a most welcome sound.
As Nimue and Arthur passed toward the center of the caves, a murmur arose. Nimue felt many eyes upon her. It made her nervous. She didn’t know these clans or their customs. She had no idea what sort of welcome, if any, to expect.
“Why are they all staring?” Nimue whispered to Arthur.
“The Wolf-Blood Witch has arrived.”
A small Faun girl with tiny antler buds growing from her high forehead ran up to Nimue and touched her leg before retreating to the safety of her family shelter. A few more children of all different Fey clans swarmed around her, pushed to hold her hand or touch her, reach for her, pull at her torn sleeves. Some adults joined the children, encircling Nimue, a dozen at first, then dozens more, then a hundred, surrounding her in a worshipful circle of thankful survivors. Nimue’s chest tightened with fear. Part of her wanted to run as the refugees pulled her away from Arthur to put necklaces over her head or to offer her scraps or charms of whatever eager gifts they could. Nimue said over and over, “Thank you, thank you, you’re so kind.” She turned back to look for Arthur but could not see him in the crowd that had formed around her.
SEVENTEEN
THE BLIND JUGGLER WAS A gloomy, smoke-filled tavern with a warped floor that reeked of sour wine. The glowing logs in the central hearth cast a dim yellow glow in the eyes of the men who muttered over their cups, looking for vulnerable travelers to rob of their purses. The women were just as dangerous, skilled at lifting coins as they whispered illicit promises into the ears of lonely strangers.
Merlin was one of those strangers and had chosen a corner table that allowed him to both see and be seen, for he was both hunter and prey this evening. The brutes at the other tables did not concern him. Merlin was trying to lure out more elusive game.
Harrow’s Pond was a backwater on the edge of one of the many Wildlands—untamed and violent wildernesses harboring dangers both natural and otherwise—that divided the kingdoms of England, Aquitania, and Francia, making the task of uniting the region the rocks upon which all ambitious kings had crashed. Riders were known to push their horses the extra day’s ride to avoid a night’s stay, for Harrow’s was a thieves’ paradise. Its very construction, tightly packed and tilting structures built against a hill to prevent it from sinking into the wetlands, created a rat’s burrow of winding alleys, narrow stairways, dead ends, and dark lanes.