Page 33 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire

chwiorydd

(SISTERS)

I leave my fire burning and rejoin the road.

The sun’s rising in the sky, painting it red as a warning.

The lamps that frame the path are doused and the cobbles are coated with a layer of black dust that shifts under my feet and clings to the hems of my coat and skirt.

Ahead, the trees begin to lose their leaves, and their rich brown trunks turn ashen.

Further up the road, the leaves are already rotting in fetid piles. Brittle boughs form a web against the cloud-banked sky. Eu gwlad has been so bright, so sunny, that I’d almost forgotten the flat gray blanket that I’ve grown up under. The trees are dead, the land barren.

As I walk even further, the trees start to disappear entirely.

They’re spaced oddly, like their neighbors have been ripped from the ground.

Here there are no more plants, no more moss, no branches.

Hills rise on the horizon, cloaked in mist. The north is silent and cold, a patient on their deathbed waiting for the infection to claim them whole.

I pass the last of the dead trees, and the road snakes between barren hills that grow quickly into mountains. These peaks are still green and untouched by the disease, a sequence of purposeful, jagged ledges that rise into grand, sky-piercing points.

A bird cries overhead. It dives and rises, and it quickly becomes clear that it’s circling something on a low ledge. The road leads that way.

I start up the steep, worn path. My breath mists in the crisp, cool air. It’s sharp in my lungs, whipping through my ever-damp clothes. I huff as I reach the next small peak, where a coaching house sits alone.

It’s a large stone building, and three carriages sit, forgotten, just outside.

Two have faux horse attachments, like Neirin’s cab, while the reins and bridles of the third have been hastily cut, as though to allow real horses to bolt.

The doors on all three are open, as if the passengers fled before they could continue their journey.

There’s a shoe stuck in the dirt, and more thick, sticky mud clings to the carriage wheels.

Trunks still sit on the roofs and rear racks, though a few have been knocked to the ground.

One suitcase spills its contents—an eerie selection of white dresses—onto the filthy ground.

The wind riffles through the dirtied clothes, catching a silk stocking and blowing it toward the coaching house.

The main building also serves as a post office, judging by the deliveries waiting at the doors.

One panel sways slightly in the breeze, creaking on old hinges, the only sound for miles.

I creep closer and poke my head inside. It’s freezing, the fires long burned out, and a ledger lies open, its pages rustling in the wind.

The rancid smell of foul food hits my nose.

I grimace and wonder how long this place has been abandoned.

I slip away toward the stables on the side of the office. Below a half-finished sign, a ladder lies on the ground, knocked down in the commotion, an overturned bucket leaking blue paint onto the cobble path beside it. There are no horses in the stable, either.

I carry on up the road and find a lone carriage with its doors closed, seemingly untouched by whatever scramble happened here.

I wish I could tell you that this carriage too was driven by magic, or that the owners had time to free their horse, but I cannot.

The horse attached to the front is dead, the corpse emaciated and plagued by flies.

I don’t wish to say any more, as I did not like seeing it, so I will spare you the rest.

With one hand covering my nose against the reek of rotten flesh, I draw my rapier and approach the cab slowly.

Someone has jammed a broom against the door handle, the bristles resting precariously on the carriage step.

I clamber up onto an overturned case and it sinks deeper into the mud, almost jostling me off, but I grab the side of the carriage and hold on.

I raise my hand to the darkened window, shielding my eyes to peer inside.

A teg family sit on the carriage bench, the mother and father wrapped in furs, their eyes closed as if they’re only sleeping.

They look ellyll, with pointed ears, lithe bodies and faces too elegant to be real.

The only visible sign of danger is on the boy squeezed between them, slumped against his mother with hunks of coal growing over his eyes.

A hand slams against the glass from the inside.

I yelp and jerk back, barely keeping my balance on the trunk.

The hand is covered in growths, a little bracelet poking out from the spreading stone.

I catch a glimpse of what might once have been a young girl with gold ringlets, before I jump down and turn away quickly.

The carriage rocks and groans behind me, and I know that makeshift doorstop won’t last long.

I don’t slow until I’m down the other side of the mountain and I can no longer see the coaching house when I look back.

My teeth chatter as I follow the road, my body aching with shivering spasms that don’t subside.

I’m cold to my bones and getting colder still.

On one side of the path, the mountains plateau into a placid lake, and I stumble from the road to kneel by the smooth water’s edge.

It’s mirror flat, and I catch a glimpse of my short hair, hanging slightly jagged just below my jaw, the curls bouncing in the wind.

I smile, and it’s strange to watch my reflection copy me.

I don’t think I’ve ever smiled at her before.

I reach for the water and carefully raise it to my mouth.

“Don’t drink that!”

I start, almost falling into the lake. I stagger up as quickly as I can, and when I turn, I find a girl standing behind me.

She points to the other side, where filthy dark-gray scum like fallen ashes covers the water.

She’s barefoot beneath her long skirt, and her hair looks like it’s been freshly brushed and oiled by a maid—how did this pampered princess sneak up on me?

I wipe my wet hand on my skirt, and the girl tucks a red curl behind her human ear. She smiles wide, and I remember where I’ve seen her face before.

She’s King Emrys’s consort.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I followed you.”

And her butterflies followed her. Wings flap about her hair and her dress, the only sign of life for miles.

“How did I not see you until now?” I ask. “I have sight, and besides, you’re human. How did you find me?”

“I’ve always been more at home in the wilds than anywhere else.

” She shrugs. “A few years in a palace can’t erase experience.

You were easy to track and distracted enough to make you easy to hide from.

I’ve kept eyes on you since you left my castle.

A friend at Neirin’s court told me when you left, and the woods were happy to point me in your direction. ”

I’m stunned into silence. Her answers have only opened more questions, but for some awful reason I snag on what she said about Neirin’s house.

“A friend at his court? You have spies?”

She pulls a face. “That’s an unkind word for it.”

“But it’s the truth.”

“Does it matter? I’m here to help you.”

“Why?” I say incredulously. “Surely your king wouldn’t want you interfering.”

“He doesn’t, and I’m sure he’ll be furious when I get back, but when I explain, he’ll understand. I couldn’t let my family get hurt.”

“Family?”

She ignores me and grabs my wrists in certain, strong hands, tugging me away from the water’s edge and into the pale light.

Her eyes are alert, not at all like the lost girl-child she seemed in the palace.

I pull away, but her eyes continue raking over every inch of my face.

She stands tall, carries herself with the air of someone who has grown used to power and can wield it.

And she called me family.

“How are we related?”

“I’m your aunt.” Delyth presses a hand to her chest. “You’re Elin’s daughter. I can’t believe it’s been so long since she had her child—”

“Granddaughter,” I correct her, before I even think about what I’ve said.

Before I can understand what she has said.

Her smile slips slowly to the ground. “What?”

She’s Gran’s missing sister, the girl who vanished on her way home from the shops. The girl my gran never stops looking for in every crowd.

“It’s been fifty years. Did you think time would stop?” A furious twitch hurtles through me, and Delyth’s face softens.

“I used to do that,” she says.

“Why did it stop?”

She shrinks in on herself. “Emrys stopped it for me. He grew tired of it after a few years. He could do the same for you!”

“No,” I say instantly, though I don’t know why.

My twitch has been a constant source of bullying and irritation all my life. It keeps me awake when I’m upset, and no one takes me seriously when I try so hard to sound clever but can’t control my own body.

Still, I won’t get rid of it. It’s a part of me.

Delyth grabs my hand, shakes it rapidly. “This has started all wrong. I’ll try again. I’m your… I’m Delyth.” She can’t quite bring herself to say “great-aunt.”

I let out a breath and return her firm shake. “Habren.”

“Liar,” she says.

“Back at you.”

She grins. Her teeth are crooked like mine, but they suit her.

Delyth drops my hand, takes a step back. She’s so small, this ghost that has haunted my house—my family—since before my father was born.

“Why do you want to help me?” I ask her.