Page 77 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6
‘Damn it. Show yourself at once,’ Silas demanded. ‘I’ve had quite enough of being sprung upon.’
‘Listen here, young chap.’ The leshy huffed, its annoyance rustling leaves. ‘You’ll not speak to Robin that way.’
‘It’s all right, Major. I should have announced myself better.’
They, Robin presumably, stepped from the opening in the oak’s broad trunk, long slender legs unfolding in a languid way. They appeared womanly, at least in the way a purebred may define such things, with most of the curves and bulges expected of such a creature. But, just as it was for Pitch himself, there was a blurring of the lines so many sought to draw between man and woman. Robin bowed their head and leaned forward to accommodate the narrow opening. Flaxen hair, long to their narrow waist, shifted around them like the reed the creature so resembled. They were thin to the point that it stole a little from their beauty. But there was so much beauty to be had that it was quickly overcome. Flower petals, barége sheer and a touch creamier than the white of snow, clung to their flat chest and around their jutting hips, caught in an endless cycle of fluttering away from their body and regenerating once more. Revealing, in rotation, the absence of breasts but so too the absence of a shaft.
At a guess Pitch would assume them fae, but he had to search hard for sign of the creature’s aura with his weakened sight, and Silas was ahead of him by a heartbeat.
‘A hamadryad…fae of the trees.’ He sounded as awestruck as he’d been on seeing the oak. ‘Pitch, it is one of Tilly’s kind.’
Not exactly. Hamadryad were life-bound to one tree, the oak, Pitch would assume. Which accounted for its immense growth. Tilly, in contrast, was a freer spirit, able to align herself with any she chose.
Robin watched them through eyes not rounded but scalloped at their edges, with irises the yellow of a daisy’s centre. The hamadryad was not much taller than the changeling, but by assumed appearance, Pitch decided they must be older.
‘Tilly?’ Their question lifted like birdsong. ‘That is what they have called my kindred? How very beautiful.’
‘Kindred?’ Silas marvelled. ‘You are related to the little changeling?’
‘Your kind might call us sisters.’ Robin inclined their head, and a cascade of tiny petals fell, mimicking the snow, of which there was no evidence here in the heart of the forest. ‘You must be the one she names and loves as Sy. Welcome, Mr Mercer.’
Silas of course took the endearment with all his usual restraint in such matters, blushing and looking inordinately pleased.
Pitch found it his turn to be observed.
The dryad cocked their head. ‘A creature of sad but incredible beauty. You can be no other than her fire man.’
Pitch let out a shuddered breath.
Robin’s wheat-gold hair was lively, as though it carried its own breeze. A shift at their ear revealed Tilly’s earring had found a new home.
Silas touched his shoulder, his face bright with what they both understood. They were among friends.
‘Doesn’t seem much of the fire about him. Strangest aura I’ve seen in a while.’ The leshy shook a branch, the way an indignant lady might flick her fan.
‘And that’s just as well.’ Robin’s melodious voice helped the daemon forget how damned cold he was. ‘You wouldn’t like him burning down Sherwood now, would you, Major? Now come, gentlemen, come and rest yourselves. We’ll see if we can’t make you more comfortable on that foot, Mr Astaroth.’
‘Pitch.’
‘Pitch.’ They smiled. Their teeth were nearly the same daisy yellow as their eyes, not altogether pleasant, but that glint, that vibrant hint of life…he knew it so well. He was taken aback by how much it pained him to be reminded of the changeling. ‘You’ve had a trying time of it and both look as though the very weight of the British Isles is upon you.’ Will Scarlet chittered in the fae’s ear. They nodded. ‘Wonderful idea, Scar. Would anyone like some dewberry mead?’
‘Yes, please.’ Silas, polite and suitably restrained.
Pitch had no time for such things. ‘Oh fuck, yes.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DEWBERRY MEAD, as it turned out, was delicious. Silas drained his third cup of the sweet liquid, which was not so gluttonous as it seemed, for the cups themselves were hollowed-out acorns. Bigger acorns than he was familiar with, yes, but still not so large as a glass of brandy.
He sat with his back against the oak, a surprisingly comfortable position, considering the hardness of the wood. Perhaps that was more to do with the mead, and the prince who rested with him.
Pitch sat propped between his legs, using Silas’s raised knees like the rests on an armchair. A trio of meliad nymphs strummed on tiny harps, woven from grass and strung with spiderweb. The toadstools pulsed their light slowly, in a pretty mimic of candlelight, while peri and brownies and a gnome or two danced on the thick moss of the clearing and enjoyed the mead with impressive vigour.
Silas ran his fingertips up and down the length of Pitch’s arm. They had removed their coats, dressed now in only shirts and trousers, and the corset for the prince of course, but neither were the colder for undressing. Pitch’s ankle had been packed in fresh soil and wrapped in layering that looked and glistened like morning dew. He’d not made a fuss. In fact his sigh at receiving the compress had been nearly sinful. Silas had been relieved to see that the gashes had all knit firmly, with no chance of a bleed from there. Now they just waited on the bones beneath to heal.
The oak was warm, as though it stood in the summer sun. The formidable branches fanned out and cascaded down to umbrella the entire clearing in their embrace.
‘Have you ever seen such a sight?’ Silas sighed.