She recalled once reading about certain plants native to the Low Forest, memory tampering fruit and hallucinogenic mushrooms, whose seed and spore the Fae would purposefully sprinkle closer to human territory. Such vegetation was illegal to harvest and produce, but as Lorietta had mentioned, the inhabitants of Brocéliande played by their own rules.
Everything she’d consumed and drank as of late had been prepared by the kindred witch, so that made the possibility of poisoning unlikely; however, it wasn’t exactly something she’d put past Garin. Her throat tightened.
The harder she peered, the clearer the sounds grew, almost as if from behind a thick curtain that slowly opened. There was something else this time. Music. Pleasant flute music, and layered beneath that… Lighthearted chatter. Laughter, even. Suppressing a violent shudder, she clenched her fists and advanced through the perimeter of trees. There, she found herself at the mouth of a small clearing.
The chatter and flute music ceased abruptly. Had it all been a figment of her overactive imagination? Of her overtiredness?
Lilac froze, realizing she’d been lured away from the river—and her potato sack. And her belt, which held the dagger.
She scrambled back against a moss-covered trunk at the edge of the clearing. Should she run back to her belongings and her dagger? Or would her sudden movement attract the now-silent source of the voices? Lilac rubbed her eyes.
She was losing it.
Her heart nearly stopped when two distinct voices echoed out of the air right before her.
“Can she—can she see us?”
“Shut your mouth, Ra’arak,” the second voice rasped. It was deeper, rougher than the first.
“The ward, maybe it’s broken.”
“I swear to Jotuun, Ra’arak,” snapped the second voice.
“Cute little thing, she is, aye?”
That was enough. By their voices, she could tell they were obviously Darklings; interacting would only give her away. But, in the moment, being unable to see them was somehow even more unnerving than revealing her identity.
“Show yourselves,” she commanded, eyeing the empty clearing warily.
The moment she addressed the floating voices, a burst of warm air exploded, scattering the dirt and forest debris toward her. Lilac cried out and barely shielded her face in time. Shaking, she dusted her arms off and opened her eyes.
It was as if she’d been transported to another area of the forest entirely.
A handful of colorful patchwork tents barely taller than Lilac encircled a towering bonfire at the center of the clearing. The fire pit had been dug exceptionally deep, and was still lined with a wall of river rocks, probably meant to both shield the flames from the biting breeze and prevent them from catching onto the too-close tents. It appeared the tents had been fashioned out of different garments—clothes, underwear, sheets—sewn crudely together.
Four korrigans sat on logs between the tents and hearth, staring dumbfoundedly in her direction. Two more stood right in front of her, their jaws hanging. Their eyes came level to her breasts; she pretended to sniffle in the cold and crossed her arms across her chest.
“The ward,” the korrigan on the right, the rough-voiced one, said. “It’s gone…”A pair of round spectacles bounced above his grey, bulbous nose every time he spoke.
“I—I apologize,” Lilac stammered. “I didn’t… I heard footsteps and voices, and followed them. I didn’t mean to—”
“You heard us, through the ward,” he repeated, half to himself as the korrigan next to him trembled in silence. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes. And no. No need for apologies, we are able to conjure the ward all over again—it’s simple, all we’ll do is use the bewitched flint to light a fire and we are hidden safely from outsiders. We are only revealed if the flames are extinguished… or if we, the hidden, interact with those from whom we are hiding…” he muttered. Then, he looked up again, peering inquisitively through his spectacles as if seeing her for the first time all over again. “So, erm, how exactly did you find us?”
Lilac blinked, feeling dizzy all of the sudden. “I heard you first. Then, suddenly I could see you. Perhaps your ward is broken,” she offered feebly, hoping to derail him from her identity. Though her speaking to them made it obvious, it was a try. The poor git didn’t seem all there, to begin with.
“We have had the bewitched flint for a few years now. But, even then…” The korrigan’s deep brown eyes grew large as the moon. “You are human,” he gasped. “Yet, here you are speaking to us, just as I can speak to Ra’arak here.”
Lilac’s heart skipped a beat. They were far more intelligent than she’d given them credit for.
“I’m, erm…” She swallowed nervously, feeling six pairs of beady eyes burning into her forehead.
“The girl with the Darkling Tongue,” Ra’arak finally cried, his outstretched arms trembling.
A wave of hushed gasps arose from the korrigans around the fire. They scuttled over to gather behind Blitzrik and Ra’arak. The six of them formed a small crowd, cornering her against the tree trunk and whispering frenziedly.
She was trapped.
In one last, weak attempt, Lilac held her palms up. “No, no, I—I’m so sorry, you must have me terribly mistaken. I’m—”
“The girl with the Darkling Tongue,” Blitzrik repeated insistently.
“Princess Lilac,” the six murmured together like an awestruck choir. “Trécesson.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. She couldn’t do anything but shake her head in protest. She was done for. They would knock her unconscious with their clubs, or—her eyes darted frantically around the campsite—with their sheepskin drums and harp. Surely their miniature knives were hidden somewhere, perhaps in their ratty clothes. They’d maim her, cut her body into small pieces and roast her limbs over that gigantic fire. Then, they’d devour her like a tender pork rib.
She was the prodigal daughter of the very monarch who had set Henri’s Law into motion to oppress Darklings and revoke what few freedoms they’d had left. Why not kill and eat her?
She looked down, half expecting knife tips bristling in her direction. Instead, Blitzrik and Ra’arak had fallen to their knees at her feet. The korrigans behind them followed suit and kneeled, heads bent.
“Finally, Your Royal Highness. You’re here to help us,” Blitzrik announced in his baritone.
“Quick, you must fetch her something to drink,” he directed at Ra’arak next to him, nudging his elbow back to the campsite while maintaining a bowed head. “Your Royal Highness, what’ll it be? Water? Tea? Warm water?”
Lilac could only stare petrified with disbelief. She was stuck against her tree. The dagger and the rest of her belongings seemed so far away.
“Tea it is,” he rumbled. As if on cue, the korrigans raised their heads, remaining on their knees except for Ra’arak, who rose to his pudgy feet and scurried into the nearest tent.
Lilac cleared her throat awkwardly while glancing down upon the peculiar, grey-skinned creatures. As the bards had in the tavern, they wore some semblance of tattered human shirts, previously white or cream linen and now a grungy brown. Each donned a little red hat knitted to their size and at least appeared to be male, though she wasn’t at all positive. Back at the tavern she hadn’t gotten a close enough look; their faces were human-like but totally disproportionate, especially in their noses and puffed lips, which made them look like they’d been stung by wasps.