Fae of the North (Court of Crown and Compass Book 1) Page 2

  I blink a few times and it appears as if teeth bite the sky. No! They’re mountains. I hasten my steps. What lies beyond? I force myself forward as the inky night slowly lifts at last. The sunrise is the rosy shade of my mother’s lips, the lavender of her eyes, and the pale sunshine of her skin.

  Tears flow freely down my cheeks. I don’t tear my eyes from the sun, hoping it will return me home. Bring me back to my mother. But as the sky paints itself blue, I know it’s too late.

  My mother had crystalline wings like from the stories of faeries she’d tell me when I was a little girl. I always knew there was magic in the world, but it was controlled by the Force and used for offensive and defensive purposes. Never for beauty. But that’s what my mother was. A beautiful person with a secret. She was fae. How could that be? I certainly didn’t think they were real. Why didn’t she tell me? Now that she’s gone I may never know.

  My ragged sobs fade as I near the mountains. I leave footprints in the snow as my shadow lengthens behind me. I won’t stop walking while there is light. The snow turns to rocky soil, the dirt to a meadow filled with green-brown grass steepled with drying juniper. A golden bird that resembles a raven lands on the stiff branch of a tree. Its bead-like eyes blink at me before flying away and toward the hills in the distance. I spot a stack of flat stones like a totem and then another by a tinkling stream where I risk a drink.

  I continue on the mountainous terrain. I follow the totems, pass stone structures, cross bridges, and climb rocks. At dusk, I reach a plateau. The sky opens to a wide valley, divided by a river. Pockets of light dot the distance like stars even though there aren’t any overhead yet.

  It’s definitely not New York City, but there must be people and food and heat.

  As I hustle along the path, loose gravel slides toward the base of the mountain. I’m nearly there. Hills slope gently between the pricks of light in the distance. I slow my pace when a dip in the terrain reveals an enormous wall enclosing the city on two sides. The third border is formed by another mountain and the fourth is the sea.

  After finishing my protein bar, I decide to wait until daylight to continue. There is no telling what the city is trying to keep in or out with that wall. I find a tree and climb it. Tying myself to the trunk using the skyn rope so I don’t fall out, I clutch my knees to my chest.

  I have a craving for something, but it’s not brownies or potato chips or the usual. It’s not a pang of hunger at all even though the protein bar did little to fill my stomach. Rather, it’s a chilling sensation, tugging on invisible threads inside of me. Although, I could go for some birthday cake right now. Instead, I drift to sleep.

  I wake to the hiss of voices. Lantern light bobs in the distance. I still my breath as the hair lifts on the back of my neck.

  Chapter 3

  Soren

  It’s foolish to keep coming back out here night after night, but I’ve been called worse than a fool. The evidence is on my skin. I rub my calf where a new stretch of ink burns. The low pulse of the drums keeps me confident the night howls, cursed wolf shifters, in the hills will remain at bay.

  If I can’t have fish, fowl will have to do. The trees are relatively bare giving the birds fewer places to roost for the night. My stomach pinches with hunger. The king has stores and stores of food and grain. I smell the brown bread when I pass the castle after the demon hour sends everyone else scurrying. He keeps us hungry, scared, and beholden to the crumbs in his hand.

  What he doesn’t realize is that I have sharp teeth and a heavy jaw.

  I pause on a hilltop, inhaling deeply and tasting something close to freedom. The moon glitters on the sea off in the distance. If I had a boat, I’d sail to distant shores just to feel the water under me and possibility before me. Just to feel the salt on my skin and the wind in my hair. To see what my father did on his voyages.

  Someday I will be free.

  I pull my cap lower. I gaze at what remains of the town of Raven’s Landing and Fjallraven Castle as though I have a mirror into someone else’s memory.

  There were once lush green fields bordering copper sun-streaked hills. Villages dotted the highlands and the lowlands. The cozy, thatched-roofed homes welcomed friends with trails of smoke puffing from the chimneys. There’d be tea and brown bread spread on the table with enough for seconds. I tasted jam on shortbread once and will never forget the sweetness on my lips.

  In the former great kingdom of Raven’s Landing, Castle Fjallraven stood as a proud monument in service of the sea, the fields, and the people.

  With no thanks to the silver king who has reigned since I was a lad, it’s now etched with soot. Thatched roofs burned. Hearths went cold. Stomachs remain empty. People are bought and sold. The past haunts the harbor with empty nets and the lonely cries of the gulls. Menace, evil, greed, and the demons scatter hope to the farthest fringes.

  And me? I’m on the other side of the broad wall, willing a low murmur of voices not to come closer. Are they patrols? Demons on the borders? Night howls stalking their dinner?

  I flatten myself against the trunk of a tree and listen. Rustling fills my ears. A howl in the hills. And a heartbeat just above me. Curious. My senses are sharp, honed by necessity. I glance up, but before I can sense whether whoever hides there is a threat, the outline of a person staggers closer.

  I remain vigilant until I determine it’s not the nebulous form of a demon or the helmet of a patrolman appearing in the dark—not that they often dare to go beyond the wall. Without warning, I sidestep, pivot, and wrap my arm around the neck of the figure. He’s solid. No helmet. I squeeze tight and growl, “Friend or foe?”

  “Hungry,” he croaks.

  My stomach agrees.

  Something pointy nudges me from behind. He has a companion. I should’ve known they’d work in pairs. I use the captive as a shield and spin around.

  “Should we be asking you the same thing? Are you loyal to the king?” The second person is gaunt, hungry, a woman with ink-covered hands—the sign of a Raven’s Landing rebel.

  I smile because the king’s inky punishment doesn’t reach outside the wall and I can speak freely without fear that my skin will be stained with the ink curse. “I am not loyal to the king,” I hiss with disdain.

  “Then where does your loyalty lie?” she asks.

  The moon reveals the blade is dull and a gust of wind suggests my foe has been drinking stijl—the black teeth in her mouth rot in confirmation.

  “You should sharpen that,” I suggest, nodding at the blade.

  “On your bones,” she spits.

  “Not likely,” I say, discretely drawing my own blade, which is quite sharp. I keep vigilant but don’t get the sense that the person in the tree is with them.

  “If you’re interested in defeating the king you should also avoid the stijl.” That’s what keeps everyone inside the wall. Well, except these two podgers. The threat of the patrol, the demons that haunt the night, and the lack of food, shelter, freedom, along with the constant craving for more stijl keep everyone compliant.

  Well, almost everyone.

  She grunts. “Why’re you out here?”

  “Not to argue about alliances.”

  The guy in my arms wiggles. “Let me go,” he says.

  I shove him toward the woman.

  A slight rustling sounds from above in the tree. They don’t notice.

  “The king’s collectors took everything of mine, bled me dry. A nixer is what he is.” He adjusts his jacket.

  I nod in agreement and exhale. These slugs are no physical threat to me and if anything, we see things similarly. “Why are you out here?” I say, volleying the question back at them.

  They stand opposite me, and I see a resemblance in the shape of their eyes and the lines puckering their downturned lips. Siblings?

  He says, “Food, you fool.”

  She says, “Air.”

  This gives me pause. “Me too, but I’ve been up here since the demon hour—nightfall. It’s near
ly barren. I think you’ll have better luck over there,” I say, pointing to the next rise of hills.

  “Would you now?” the gaunt guy says, licking dry lips and unwavering in his quest.

  I exhale. I recognize their hunger so well. “Fine. I’ll get us dinner then leave me in peace.” I sigh and lift my bow to the tree, narrowing my eyes. I take aim and then adjust several degrees before letting the arrow fly.

  A soft thump hits the grass then another. My stomach tightens then sinks as it always does when my arrow strikes a bird. “One for me. One for you.”

  “Are there more?” the guy asks with a slur.

  Greedy dowser. “Not tonight,” I say. “Now go.” I straighten to my full, imposing height.

  The guy nods, snapping up the bird. The woman surveys me with unchecked hostility.

  “You’re welcome,” I mutter and don’t move until they disappear beneath the hill.

  I lean against the trunk, listening for their departure, ensuring the patrol isn’t nearby and that I’m alone with whoever remained silent, perched in the tree, through that ordeal.

  “Are you hungry?” I whisper. May as well feed the village while I’m at it.

  When there’s no response, I begin to prepare the fowl for dinner. “I prefer it cooked, but don’t want to risk a fire even if it keeps the demons away.” I take a gamey bite. “It’s not bad.”

  The shifting and snapping of branches come from above.

  “I don’t bite,” I say around a mouthful. “Generally speaking.” I swallow the meat. “If I was going to hurt you, I’d have shot you with the arrow.” And if you were going to hurt me, you had ample opportunity while I was dealing with that drunken pair.

  Ordinarily, I don’t go for leaving my back unprotected, not even for a minute, but whoever is in the tree doesn’t want to be seen and those of us outside the walls of Raven’s Landing usually have a good reason.

  I turn and startle as pale blue eyes stare at me from the dark. She must’ve dropped from the tree as quietly as a cat. Her eyes are like snow, but not cold. Like glass, but not hard. A spray of what looks like a faint smattering of ice glitters beneath her eyes like freckles only not. It’s as though frozen tears stretch across her high cheekbones. A slim nose rests over a pair of lips that I’ll never, not as long as I live, ever forget.

  “You’re different,” I whisper and by different I mean beautiful.

  Beauty isn’t something I’m accustomed to seeing. I swallow even though my mouth is empty of everything except awe. Instead of meeting her with my usual armor of hostility and suspicion, I find myself softening as though I found a rare treasure perched in that tree and if I startle her, she’ll disappear. It’s like the gentle brush of a feather wakes something up inside of me.

  Her eyes don’t leave mine as her shoulders lift and lower, her chest heaving. Something sharp pricks my stomach. She has a blade and this one isn’t dull.

  I bring the bird toward her lips, making an offering. She studies it carefully and then sniffs, her nostrils flaring before taking a ravenous bite. She holds the blade to my stomach as she fills her mouth.

  “I won’t hurt you,” I say.

  “I’d say the same, but I’m not making any promises,” she says after she swallows. Her voice is icy. Yet her eyes don’t leave mine, as if they can’t. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

  There’s a howl in the distance.

  “You can blame the king for the night howls’ hunger,” I grumble.

  Her gaze is cautious, suspicious. “Night howls?”

  “The king’s wolves. As if the wall weren’t enough, they make sure no one leaves the boundary and roam outside the walls.” I flash a smile. “I’ve never seen one properly, only the glowing yellow eyes in the hills. They say if one bites you, only human flesh will satisfy your appetite.”

  “I didn’t come all this way to be teased.”

  “Where did you come from?” I ask, even though the answer is obviously from the north.

  “New York.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You’ve never heard of New York? New York City? Manhattan? The Big Apple? Same thing.” She starts humming a tune and then stops herself as though thinking better of it.

  My head slides from side to side. “Well, welcome to Raven’s Landing.”

  Her gaze disappears as a cloud washes over the moon. But she shifts to the north with a subtle turn of her shoulders.

  “What brings you here? You won’t find gold if that’s what you’re looking for. At least, not unless you rob the king.”

  “What about silver?” she asks.

  My eyebrows crimp together.

  “Does the king or wear a silver crown? Or is he known as the silver king?” she asks.

  The moon appears again, and I slide my hand toward the hilt of her blade, covering hers, and slowly move the weapon away. I shudder at the contact. I tell myself it’s the cold.

  She lowers the blade but doesn’t sheathe it.

  “You’ll want to think about whether you really want to use that on me or him.”

  “Him? The king?” Her eyes brighten. “Use the weapon on royalty? I wouldn’t dare.”

  “I would,” I mutter.

  “I don’t understand.”

  I take another bite of the bird, tearing the meat with my teeth. Her eyes flash with hunger, and I pass it to her.

  “You should know that King Leith isn’t friendly or nice or any other superlative worthy of a leader.”

  “But he’s your ruler. I must see him.”

  “Not if you want to stay alive.”

  “But that’s exactly why.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say, echoing her comment.

  She huffs. “Where exactly am I? Why am I here? How do I get home?” she asks rapid-fire. “Is this one of those click my heels three times scenarios?” She looks down at her boots, lifts onto her toes, and taps the heels together. Another huff escapes. “Nope.”

  Then it dawns on me. New York is in the Terra realm.

  “You say that you’re from New York, but you must originally be from here. As far as I know, only those born in Borea can travel between the two realms. Non-magicals are born in Terra and those with supernatural blood are born here. Although, not all Borean’s seem to possess abilities,” I say hesitantly.

  She waves her hand in front of my face. “Can you see me? Are we speaking the same language?”

  My lips pinch together.

  “Look at my clothes. Look at your clothes. I’m wearing a custom-made Peace Officer uniform. And you’re rocking a real Viking look. Don’t get me wrong it works. Like really works.” She stutters a breath. “But no, clearly I am not from here, wherever here is. I’m a New Yorker. Born, raised, and proud of it too.”

  “You couldn’t come here, to this realm, unless you were originally from here—the Borea realm.”

  Her hand presses against her forehead, she squishes up her face, and then takes a deep breath. “Okay, okay. I’ll play along. I’ve had a really weird day, night, day again. Night. I don’t even know. Please, explain.”

  “There’s the Terra realm where you New York must be and the Borea realm where you are now. They exist parallel to each other. Here, in Borea, there are four areas. The Northlands, Westlands, Southlands, and the Eastlands.”

  “That’s simple, but can I please speak to your manager?” She crosses her arms in front of her chest.

  I can’t help but stare.

  She says, “Oh, right. The king. Take me to him.” She pauses. “I already said please and am not the kind of girl to say it twice.”

  Her demand gives me pause. Clearly, she doesn’t know the risk her request carries. “I can’t take you to the king,” I reply.

  She doesn’t lift her gaze from me as I lower to the base of the tree and lean against the trunk. She hovers as though unsure whether to flee or rest her tired body. I pat the ground. “I said, I won’t hurt you, but I suggest you duck and
cover because there really are others out here who wouldn’t think twice about sticking you with an arrow, or worse.”

  She hesitantly sits, all the while watching me with those startling, icy eyes, rimmed with faint glitter.

  “A golden bird has been keeping me company on my journey. Maybe I’ll have better luck getting answers out of him.” Frustration lashes her words.

  “The golden raven?” I ask.

  As far as I know, the golden raven only protects the fae and they don’t cross the Raven’s Landing border. Could she be fae? I glance at her startlingly light eyes almost like ice. Fae have lavender eyes. Hers aren’t quite that color. “Are you—?”

  “I am not afraid,” she says as though trying to convince herself of the last part.

  “You should be,” I mumble.

  Her gaze remains fixed stubbornly ahead.

  “Listen, there are some people here that can do things, um, powerful things,” I hint, thinking of the seer I saw not long ago who made up some convoluted prophecy about starlight and brown bread—and strangely, that’s what I see twinkling and spilling from her eyes. Well, not the bread part.

  As though the fight in her takes flight, she drops her head into her hands. “Terra? Borea? I don’t understand. My mother is gone. And I was given some note about the world ending,” she says.

  “If you ask anyone in Raven’s Landing, they’d say it already has.” I lift a pouch of water to my lips and then pass it to her. Our hands brush again. Something within me feels like it’s flapping magnificent wings against my insides.

  No longer on her feet, ready to fight, it seems as though exhaustion consumes her.

  “We’ll stay here until the first light of dawn.”

  She mumbles, “Then you’ll take me to your king.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  Silence stretches between us, filling every space except my head and heart. I study her profile before looking away.

  She might be fearless, but for all my robust bravado, I’m not; at least not as far as she’s concerned. I didn’t think I was afraid of anything. Turns out I am. “Take you to the king? I wouldn’t do that to you,” I whisper.