Cursing, Effie realized the ancient fey sought not vengeance, but only to escape the chamber. She sprang to her feet and lunged. She couldn’t let the creature flee. She didn’t know how many other exits there might be from the warren.
Her arms thwacked into flesh and bone. The impact rattled though her body and sent her back into spasms. The Barrow Witch crumpled. Swiping back with the dagger, she thrashed through one of the shallow pools.
Her wail pierced Effie’s mind as if a butcher’s pick had been driven into her eyes and ears. But Effie did not let go. She clawed her way up the Barrow Witch’s legs, feeling the cold steel of the dagger bite at her arms.
Conall’s torch winked out. Effie reached back for him just as the chamber floor dissipated, and she dropped into an empty void. Darts whipped past her. Some snagged in her hair. Others pricked her flesh. She felt her blood run free, dripping upward as she plummeted.
It was all a trick from the Barrow Witch, she knew. She had come to recognize the Sidhe Bhreige’s manipulations. Vines, healthy and verdant, shot from her hands. She formed a sphere of pulsing light, like that of a star, and snared it with the vines from one hand. The vines of the other, she hurled as far as she could.
Her descent jerked to a halt. The darts changed course, whirling through her vines and shredding them. They were black shadows against her starlight, she saw, nothing more than a clouded thought from the Barrow Witch.
Effie ignored the glamour. She reached through her vines, stretching them out of the darkness like extensions of her own fingers. She found purchase on a clump of dried and forgotten weeds. Their thorns withered to dust as she gripped tight and yanked.
She felt the banshee’s touch crumple away from Conall. As it did, her sphere exploded and flung her hard enough to crush the wind from her lungs. Searing heat melted through her clothes and rent her to the bone.
As she bent her head to scream, the glamour disappeared.
She blinked. The white heat vanished along with its blistering agony. No cuts marred her flesh. The void had not taken her. She lay on her side, with a hand trembling in a puddle of snow melt.
Conall swayed unsteadily next to her. An amber light from somewhere nearby painted his silhouette. He held the blunderbuss by its barrel, gripped in both hands. The limp form of the Barrow Witch sprawled in front of him. Effie had freed him from madness, and he had brought an end to her torment.
A snarl curled his lip. Raising the blunderbuss, he hacked down using his full weight. The crunch echoed through the chamber. The silence afterward brought with it an onrush of elation and relief. And, Effie had to admit, hidden beneath was a small measure of sadness—for the lost, and for the senselessness of it all.
Jaelyn clomped to halt before Effie. She had relit Conall’s torch. The flame highlighted the brownie’s face, which wore an expression as jubilant as Effie knew her own must be. Muck and blood stuck to Jaelyn’s cheeks and coat. Her ginger hair was wild. Behind her, Rose and Gaelyph, and all the others of the Seily Court stood and regarded Effie with grins of disbelief. Seeing their faces unleashed a torrent of relief that shook loose a joyous sob.
“Aye,” said the brownie. “It’s done.”
35
The steam carriage rattled. Its engine puffed thick black smoke, but Effie was grateful for the warmth the burning coal emitted. The afternoon wind cut through her woolen coat and dusted her with the morning’s snow. At least the sun hung above the hills, free of clouds. Its presence brought a cheeriness to the day, fitting for Clara Bowman’s departure.
The lass clambered into the steam carriage and sat on its worn bench. The wood creaked despite her slight frame. As the driver banged the door shut, the carriage rocked on its spoked wheels. The man doffed his hat to Effie and eyed the road to Balclune with a pinched face. Ruts and sloshed snowmelt gave evidence of the many steam carriages that had already come and gone throughout the day.
Clara put her head to the open window in the carriage’s door. Her gloved hands gripped its sill. “If I might beg of you, Green Lady…” She broke off and ducked her gaze. “What I said in Syke…about what I asked of you…”
“It is forgotten,” said Effie. She placed her hands on top of Clara’s. “We have all of us suffered, for good and ill. My hope is that we will now claim the former and learn from the latter.”
Clara nodded but kept her gaze ducked. “I would’ve been lost were it not for the belief you inspired.” She smiled and finally met Effie’s eyes. Her face brightened. “I am not alone in that regard.”
Effie‘s throat tightened. Moisture came to her eyes. It had been a day of leave-takings, but Clara’s words bit deeper into her than those of earlier departures. Perhaps it was the time she’d spent searching for the lass, or perhaps it was the reminder of how close they had all come to losing everything.
After the demise of the Barrow Witch, she and the rest of the Seily Court had captured those Unseily they could, and the old distillery near Balclune where they’d once stored Aerfenium had turned into a house of healing. Many of the bogills and grindylows at the hillfort, those not slain outright, had succumbed to their wounds. A few had fled the fray as defeat closed in. But of those taken alive, almost all were now restored to their true and former selves.
Of the wulvers and trows, thurs and spriggans, not many survived. Effie feared she could do little for those who had, but she had at least convinced the duke to forestall execution until the matter was discussed more fully. They lived now in a giant pit dug like a quarry, with sheer sides and an armed guard.
The driver worked a lever, and the steam carriage squealed into motion. Effie stepped back, patting Clara’s hand one last time. “Fare thee well,” she said. “Until the next time we meet.” She made a note to check in on the lass in a few months’ time. Clara’s smile didn’t wane as she pulled back into the shadows of the carriage’s compartment.
Effie had many such notes—friends to thank, debts to repay, and promises to keep. She would start in Aberdeen with a rat who was owed a bit of cheese and see to the rest over time. That the effort might take many months did not lessen the joy that sprang from thinking about such a leisurely adventure.
A wave of fatigue passed through her, all the same. She folded her arms and closed her eyes. The effort to restore the Unseily had taken a great deal, both physically and mentally. She still recovered from her cuts and bruises suffered during the battle. Her shoulder ached. Her back spasmed if she slept too long. But she refused to sit idle while others of the Seily Court, many of whom tended their own wounds, took turns giving a part of themselves to save their brethren.
“My lady.” Jane Porter’s soft call carried to her as the pop and shudder of the steam carriage drifted away. “I am sorry to disturb you, but Mr. Alpin is making his demands again.”
Effie’s eyelids squeezed harder as her expression tightened. The old Fey Finder had brought his usual bluster and intolerance to their restoration efforts, but he had been ordered by the crown to oversee the work, and there was nothing she could do to send the man away.
A door banged open. Boots stomped through the snow. Raised voices and a familiar hacking cough carried to her. She took a deep breath before turning to greet them. Fergus Alpin’s wrinkled face and frail frame charged her direction. Samuel Harper followed, flanked by a pair of brownies. The trio wore similar coats of a russet wool, though the soldier stood twice as high as his companions and did not have so sharp of features.