Page 114 of The Moorwitch

But I cannot go back. If I did, Lachlan’s ultimatum would catch up to me. My time runs out tonight, no matter what I do. So perhaps it is this which gives me the courage to go onward—I have nothing left to lose, but something which I might still save.

The hard wooden floor of the palace begins to squelch under my feet, turning into a path of moss and damp soil. Along the wall sprout ferns, and green vines heavy with purple, bell-shaped flowers wend up the walls and crisscross the ceiling. I brush my hands through them, and they tinkle like chimes and faintly glow at my touch, then fade when I’ve walked on. The wall begins to break apart from one solidsheet of wood to individual trees, grown so close together I can barely see between them. Are they connected to the Dwirra?

No, that’s not why I’m here. Not anymore.

No more passages branch away now; this tree-lined corridor winds round and round with single-minded purpose, sweeping me away to some preordained destination. It seems I am walking in a great spiral like an old Celtic spellknot, the sort I found carved onto the ancient memorial stone where I first taught Sylvie how to Weave.

Then, abruptly, I turn a corner and there they are—Conrad, Morgaine, andhundredsof fae.

I pull back sharply, catching my breath, my heart nearly bursting out of my chest. I am tucked behind a wide trunk. Another of equal size stands across from it, their branches forming an ancient doorway.

Peering around more cautiously, I see them: a crowd gathered, facing the throne at the back of the room. Rows of trees form columns down the sides of the hall, and their branches rise into a magnificently vaulted ceiling, the space between them filled with clusters of glowing Dwirra fruits, but unlike the soft pastel lamps I’d seen elsewhere in the World Below, these shine violently red, bathing the room and all in it in a bloody glow.

The throne upon which the faerie queen sits is high above the crowd, at the top of a wide wooden staircase blanketed in mosses and ferns and small white flowers. The seat itself is white wood grown organically out of the tangle of moss-covered roots which undulate around the throne. The back of the seat shoots upward and then branches wide, limbs heavy with leaves and red lamp-fruits. Scraggly beards of moss and ropes of bellflower vines hang from them, forming a green curtain across the back wall.

Morgaine sits imperiously there, her face stone, her back rigid. On her head sits her high, jagged crown, and her red dress shimmers like scales, hugging her form and pooling at her feet. She looks down at Conrad, who is kneeling halfway up the stairs, his head bowed,dressed in a dark fae suit. The crimson light of the fruits shines on his black hair.

“I will ask you only once more, Gatekeeper,” Morgaine is saying, her voice reverberating through the great chamber, “how came you by this information?”

“My answer remains the same,” Conrad replies, his voice a murmur I can barely make out. “I saw another of his fae on the outskirts. He boasted to me of his master’s plans.”

“And from this one foolish servant you were able to discern that the Briar King is on the move?”

“I know that he is here, and that this time, he has a plan.”

“What plan is that?”

“He wants a branch from the Dwirra Tree. Though I cannot fathom why—”

“A branch from the Dwirra?” Morgaine rises to her feet, so suddenly that the fae in the front rows draw back.

Conrad nods.

Morgaine hisses something in the fae tongue, then descends the stairs and seizes Conrad by his throat. She lifts him with preternatural strength, until he stands on his toes. My hand clenches; I half step through the doorway, still unnoticed.

“Where is she?” Morgaine asks.

Conrad doesn’t struggle, but I see his frame stiffen. “Who—”

“Thewitch, boy, the too-clever girl with your heart on a string?”

I shrink back, pressing myself against the tree.

“Did you think me a fool, Connie? Did you think for even a moment that your little charade at my revel could convince me? My mistake was in believing you would discover the truth of her and act accordingly. Not that you woulddareto hide her from me!”

“Rose has nothing to do with—”

“I knew what she was the moment I laid eyes on her: she was a trap meant foryou, and I see now that you know it, that you fell for it, and that still you’ll try to defend her.”

Conrad pulls away; I catch at last a glimpse of his face, just enough to see how pale he is, and yet his eyes are defiant. “She’s long gone now, Morgaine. You’ll never catch her.”

Morgaine strikes him, fast as a lashing snake. Her nails open a deep cut in his cheek.

“Bring me my sword!” she calls out, and a fae bursts forward with a blade in his hand, offering it up to her.

Morgaine looks down at Conrad without an ounce of compassion. “For your crimes, Gatekeeper, I demand an ear. You choose. Right or left.”

Conrad blanches. “I—”