Witching Fire: A Wild Hunt Novel, Book 16 Page 4

  The guard held out her hand and right in front of her, a swirling vortex opened. I blinked—whoever she was, she was powerful. As she and another guard flanked my sides, and the other two brought up the rear, behind Kipa and my mother, we stepped through the vortex, into the portal, and everything seemed to shimmer and shift around me.

  * * *

  Portals were always disconcerting, even if you were used to them, and this was no exception. The world fell out from beneath my feet and everything began to swirl, blending into a blur of stars and motion, of energy tracers and glowing clouds. I felt like I was falling, but then my feet hit the ground and I opened my eyes, cautiously looking around.

  Overhead, the moon was shining down onto a field of snow that glistened as though it had diamonds sparkling on the surface. The trees were tall, black silhouettes against the night sky that stood like solemn guardians over the woodland. Everything looked like the forests back home, except for a subtle difference that I could feel on an energetic level. There was magic in the air, the feeling of electricity that swam around me like at the height of a lightning storm. As I stared up at the stars, they seemed to blaze a path across the night sky, a thousand suns almost blotting out the moon.

  I caught my breath, spellbound. I loved being out under the stars, but even in the years before light pollution had become such an impediment to seeing the night sky, I had never seen anything quite like this.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  One of the guards glanced at me. “You’re in Reímseil-Tabah, which is near Caer Arianrhod.”

  I froze. Caer Arianrhod was the home of Arianrhod, the goddess of the Silver Wheel. She was the original ice queen, sitting on her throne of stars as her realm rolled through the universe. That the Banra-Sheagh’s realm was close to Arianrhod’s didn’t bode well for me, if the Queen of the Ante-Fae was anything like the goddess. Arianrhod wasn’t evil, but she was aloof and near untouchable; she was as far away from humans and Otherkin as were the Force Majeure.

  “You must walk,” the guard said.

  I glanced at her. “How long have you worked for the Banra-Sheagh?”

  She hesitated, then said, “For as long as I can remember. Time moves differently here, when it moves at all. I have always been a guardian of the realm. I will always be a guardian of the realm. That is my existence.”

  I thought about asking her what she did for fun, but I had the feeling my query wouldn’t be appreciated. And she probably wouldn’t even understand the question. I was quickly getting the feeling that the Banra-Sheagh’s guards were almost automatons. I watched them as we walked along the trail. They moved in sync—they strode along in rhythm. Even their subtle head movements were aligned. They didn’t look alike, but I realized that none of the other guards had spoken. Were they some sort of hive mind creature?

  “What are your names?” I asked.

  Without a blink, the guard who I had been talking to said, “We are guardians of the realm.”

  The others said nothing. In fact they didn’t even seem to acknowledge I had asked them a question.

  “But do you have a name? I’m Raven—”

  “Yes, you are Raven.” The guard turned her face forward again and I realized the conversation was over.

  Kipa and Phasmoria were behind me, but the two guards who weren’t flanking me had interjected themselves between us. I wanted to drop back to talk to them, but one glance at the guard who was willing to talk to me told me that it was better I didn’t try.

  The night was cold—the wind blowing past us in a constant stream—and I was grateful I had put on boots and a coat. The snow was up to my shins, and it was so crisp that when I stepped into a fresh patch, it crackled like thin ice, shattering into small poofs.

  I had no frame of reference for how long we had been walking. My muscles weren’t sore, but then again, I could walk for a long time without hurting. I wasn’t terribly cold—I had chosen one of the jackets I had charmed into being perpetually warm. No matter how cold it got—within reason—I would stay toasty. I had begun making similar jackets for my friends as well. Or rather, I would ask them to bring me one of their jackets and I enchanted them. I wasn’t exactly good at working a sewing machine, and I didn’t even try to pretend. I had once attempted to make a poncho for Raj, and it had ended up looking like a potato sack.

  As we approached a thicket of tall fir and cedar, I shivered. I didn’t relish the idea of walking into a forest during the night, in a realm that I wasn’t familiar with. I wished I had tried to memorize the position of the portal—then again, Kipa was here, and my mother, and both could dimension shift if necessary. I tried to relax as we ducked under the boughs that were bowing, laden with snow.

  The moonlight was so dazzling that it splashed through the trees to light up the forest.

  Once inside the woodland, the noise level increased. Here, the wind blew through the limbs of the trees, howling as it rattled against them. And noises from all sides bombarded us as we trudged along. The sound of creatures rushed through the undergrowth, and beneath it all, I heard a heavy beat that reminded me of a heartbeat. I could also hear our breathing in the brittle cold, but as I listened, I realized that the Banra-Sheagh’s guards weren’t breathing. I squinted at the guard to my right.

  Her chest neither rose nor fell, and I realized there was no puff of white in front of her face like there was in front of mine. She wasn’t breathing. For a moment I panicked—thinking that somehow a group of vampires had interceded and they were leading me into some sort of trap. But then I shook it off. Vampires wouldn’t go to this trouble for me, for one thing. And for another—I didn’t have a problem with any vamps, not that I knew.

  I was debating whether to ask why they weren’t breathing when we emerged from the forest to yet another clearing, long and narrow like a spit of land.

  Up ahead, across another barren field filled with snow, stood a vast structure. It looked like it was made out of sticks and thorns, and it was the size of a football field, but the proportions seemed out of sync, and every time I looked at it, I saw something else, as though it had shifted once again. I wondered if it was actually blending and changing right before our eyes. Was it alive? Was it in another realm of its own? Confused, I looked away because watching it gave me a headache.

  “The palace,” the guard said, shattering the silence that surrounded us. Her voice hung in the air, echoing faintly, before it was snatched away by the wind.

  “Is that where the Banra-Sheagh lives?” I asked. “It’s hard to look at.”

  “That’s because the palace lives in the realm of Chaos. You must—all of you—listen to me and obey my orders lest you harm yourself or your friends when entering the palace.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, trying to see Kipa’s and Phasmoria’s faces. Neither of them, however, were standing close enough to the moonlight for me to see.

  “All right,” I said. “What do you have to tell us?”

  “When you enter the palace, do not step off of the center tiles. Three tiles wide are safe. We will go ahead of you and behind you to keep watch. If you try to run, you’ll step into the territory of the shadows. The shadow demons are living, breathing creatures and they are hungry. If you step into their space, they will drain you dry without a second thought and we won’t be able to help you.”

  My stomach lurched. “What if we accidentally stumble?”

  “Then you pay the price,” the guard said. “When we come to the doors, enter behind us and keep silent until you are spoken to. Even you, Lord of the Wolves. You may be a god, but this is not your territory, and while you cannot be killed, you can be taken prisoner. The goddess Arianrhod is the patron goddess of the Banra-Sheagh. You don’t want to provoke a war with the Lady Arianrhod.”

  Kipa said nothing. Neither did my mother. I glanced back at them and Kipa gave me a tight shake of the head, a warning look darting across his face.

  “Anything else we should know?”

&nb
sp; “Do not attempt escape. Again, you would be overwhelmed by the shadow demons, and no one would step in to help.” The guard fell silent again.

  My stomach was tied in knots by now, and again I wondered what I had done to warrant this level of treatment. That my mother didn’t know, either, was disturbing. Phasmoria was usually on top of everything. I wondered if the Morrígan had said anything to her, but the best course of action seemed to indicate keeping my mouth shut.

  As we approached the structure, I caught my breath yet again. It was beautiful in a jarring way, and I could now see that it was built out of vines and brambles that had entangled so much that no one in the world could detangle it. The vines overlapped and entwined so tightly that not even a flake of snow could penetrate the walls, and the thorns that jutted out from the walls were three and four feet long—dangerous spikes that gleamed under the moonlight.

  There was one entrance that I could see, and the guards in front of the opening looked very much like the guards escorting me. In fact, now that I looked at them closely, I could see a resemblance between them all. They weren’t exactly clones, but they were so alike they could have all been siblings.

  As we approached, the guards at the door saluted my guards. Without a word, they moved aside to let us in. I could feel an undercurrent of discussion, but if they had anything to say, they kept it below the surface.

  Yep, I thought. Hive mind.

  As we entered the structure, the chill from outside vanished and the path changed to tiles, three wide before falling into shadows. I could hear wisps of movement and whispers from the hidden recesses and they made me queasy.

  The light shining on the tiles came from overhead, from some fixture that shone straight down. It was impossible to tell how wide the room was—the shadows on the sides were so thick they might as well have been mud.

  The two guards flanking me immediately moved to the front. As I glanced over my shoulder, Kipa and Phasmoria were directly behind me now, with the latter guards marching behind them. Kipa caught my attention and gave me a short shake of the head that I assumed meant: obey them for now. My mother’s look underscored Kipa’s, so I turned around to follow the guards who huddled together in the center of the walkway.

  I began to understand why they avoided the side edge of the floor, when the shadow demons—who looked suspiciously like shadow men except that they weren’t so clear-cut humanoid—reached out as we passed by, trying to reach into the light toward us. But the moment their arms hit the blaze of light, and with a flurry of shrieks and groans, they jerked away from the light. That didn’t seem to stop the rest of them from trying, though.

  Nervously, I made sure to walk in the exact center, and any thought I had of trying to run off vanished. I couldn’t tell how many of the shadow demons there were, but there were far too many for comfort.

  We continued down the center tiles until, up ahead, the path ended at a pair of huge double doors. I steeled myself as the guards opened them and continued through.

  As I stepped up to the doors and then in, I hadn’t a clue what to expect, but we entered a massive chamber. It seemed to be lit by the same starlight as the walk outdoors had been, and here the subtle clamor coming from the shadow demons fell away. But the power here frightened me more than the shadow demons had, because up ahead—on a throne forged of silver and rubies and garnets and obsidian—sat the Banra-Sheagh, and she was more terrifying than anything I had ever seen.

  Chapter Five

  The Banra-Sheagh was both hideous and wondrous. A queen, she was—but she was a round creature, reminding me of a ladybug covered with spikes the color of the night sky. Glittering patches formed bright circles on her exoskeleton. The tips of the spikes flared with a sickly green color, occasionally melting into a shimmer of yellow.

  Her head was out of proportion with her body, small and set atop the rounded exoskeleton. Her arms were human enough, but there were four of them. She stood on two short, stubby legs, but even so, she towered over everyone in the room.

  My lungs tightened and I realized I was barely breathing. She looked like a queen of monsters, and yet—as we approached—I saw there was beauty there too. Monstrous beauty, alien to anything I had ever seen, but still mesmerizing.

  The Banra-Sheagh wore a crown made of silver and rubies, and her eyes glowed with a deep internal light. Whether she was wearing clothes was debatable. It was difficult to tell whether her exoskeleton—for lack of a better word—was her outfit or her body. And I didn’t think it was wise to ask.

  Behind me, Phasmoria caught her breath. I didn’t turn around but she reached forward, patting me on the shoulder. Grateful for her reassurance, though I wasn’t sure she could do anything if the Queen had it in for me, I followed the guards to the foot of the throne.

  The throne was its own monstrosity, made of silver and oak. I knew it was oak because the wood sang to me—the throne was alive in its own right.

  The guards stopped and stood to the side, motioning for me to approach the bottom of the throne. I wasn’t sure whether to bow or kneel or curtsey, so I opted for curtseying.

  As I stood, I remained silent, waiting to take my cue from the Queen.

  Kipa and my mother closed the distance between us, so they were right at my back, with Kipa on my right side, my mother on my left. We stood there for some moments, the Queen watching us like a spider might eye a fly caught in her web.

  Then, without warning, she broke the silence. “Raven BoneTalker. You are Raven BoneTalker?”

  After my mother gave me a little shove from the back, I said, “Yes, Your Majesty. I’m Raven BoneTalker.”

  “You are the bone witch, daughter of Curikan and Phasmoria, Queen of the Bean Sidhe, yes?” The Banra-Sheagh’s voice was terrifyingly rich, echoing through the chamber. I wasn’t sure what I had expected, but it wasn’t that. Her voice was enough to make me want to dive under the bed.

  “Yes,” I squeaked out, wishing with everything that I was only one of the background players in this drama.

  She stared at me for a moment, her gaze burning a hole through me. I tried to look her in the eyes, tried to stand my ground but after a few seconds of her scrutinizing me, I quickly turned my gaze to the side.

  “I see you brought a god and your mother with you for support.” She paused again.

  I wasn’t sure if she was waiting for an answer so I stammered out, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  One of the guards standing near the throne leaned forward and whispered something in her ear—or where her ear should be. I couldn’t tell if she actually had ears.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. Very well, bring him in.”

  Him? Him who? Wondering who she was talking about, I heard a noise from the darkness to her rear left and then a door opened, a shaft of light blazing in. Two figures walked through, approaching the throne. To my shock, I saw my father, followed by a man who looked far older than that. But there was a resemblance between them and I knew—without a shadow of a doubt—this was my grandfather Dougal. The question was, what were they doing here, in the realm of Reímseil-Tabah?

  * * *

  “Raven!” My father’s face brightened and he held out his arms to me, but I held my ground. I wasn’t sure what would happen to any of us if I ran to him for a hug.

  The Queen, however, cleared her throat and said, “You may acknowledge your father, child. And your grandfather.”

  Nervously, I glanced at Phasmoria, who looked as confused as I did. I slowly moved forward to hug my father. I whispered, “Da, what’s this all about?”

  He pressed his cheek against mine. “Just do as you are told.”

  I stepped back after kissing him on the cheek, waiting for the Queen to speak again. This couldn’t just be some elaborate family reunion. I was smart enough to know that.

  Shyly, I turned to my grandfather and curtseyed, who exuded more power than any of the Ante-Fae I had met except for the elders like Arachana or Blackthorn. He couldn’t hold a candle to
the Queen’s power, of course, but still, it was enough to make me walk a cautious line.

  Dougal looked older, and being Ante-Fae, those who looked older were incredibly ancient. I had no idea how long he had been alive. Nor, for that matter, if my grandmother was still around. In fact, I hadn’t ever thought about it, but I had no clue about her—or my mother’s parents. The realization made me feel weird now that I thought about it, but as I grew up, none of the familial relationships had been particularly in the forefront and it felt like an unspoken rule never to ask.

  Dougal wasn’t as tall as my father, but he was stocky with broad shoulders, and muscular, and his wavy red hair seemed a stark contrast to his scowling countenance. His eyes were pale gray, and they seemed to pierce right through me as I stood in front of him. A shock of violet ran through his hair—a lot like the purple running through mine—and I could see scrolling tattoos on his forearms beneath the shirt that he wore. They looked a lot like my own birthmarks.

  He crossed his arms across his chest and looked me up and down. “You’re a sturdy-looking lass, you are.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. “Hello, Grandfather.”

  “So you’ve a tongue, do you?” Dougal’s voice was gruff, and somehow, he made me feel five years old. “Well, we’d best get started.” He glanced over at the Banra-Sheagh. “Let’s get this court underway.”

  “Very well,” she said and right then, I knew that my grandfather had sway with the throne. She motioned for me to step back in front of her.

  I did, darting a nervous glance at my mother. Phasmoria was scowling, and so was Kipa. I wanted to edge over to stand beside them, but I knew better than to defy the Queen.

  “Dougal of the High Crags, do you claim this girl as your granddaughter?”

  “I do swear by the flame and the sword, and declare Raven BoneTalker to be my granddaughter.” He barked out his words, and I had the sudden vision of him in his natural form—as black as pitch, with blood-red eyes. The Black Dogs were a form of hellhound. For the first time since I’d been born, the idea made me nervous. My father had played with me when I was young—both in his two-legged form and in his dog form, and I loved dogs. But there was something intimidating about envisioning my grandfather in that state.