Page 69 of A Beastly Court

The grizzly seemed determine to wear them all out by the time we got to town.

News of our departure must have spread for there were lanterns in every shop window to light our path. A few townsfolk wished us well before slamming the shutters against the cold and the fury of the bear. Fewer still were outside to throw winterberry branches at our horses’ feet, wishing us a fruitful endeavor. No doubt there would have been more of a turnout had we not resembled a funeral procession. The Brothers were all in black and Ossian was shrouded in a floor-length cloak of the darkest green. In white fox fur and lambswool, I was the only one who didn’t seem like she was headed to a graveyard.

We took the east road at the rotary, passing Patty’s Pub and heading deep into farm country. Into hobgoblin bandit territory.

“Keep a sharp eye,” Ossian declared, and Alec spurred his horse forward to scout. The fae king leaned over and squeezed my hand. “You’ll be safe with me, love.”

“I know,” I replied, but my confidence wasn’t all in him. It was in my own ability, and in the knowledge that there was a little tabby tomcat hiding away in my foraging bag.

The bag was layered under the white fur coat to keep him warm and extra hidden, and from the way his claws were pricking my stomach, I knew him to be half out of the bag and watching the passage of the sky from the gap between the coat collar and my neck. He’d been adamant about never letting me out of his sight, no matter what danger that posed to him. And with us still bonded, though I no longer bore the cat silhouette on my oak tree, we could pass small amounts of magic to each other in times of trouble. And trouble was sure to greet us in Elfame. The Court of Beasts would not bow to a new lord easily.

The heavy wagon ensured our pace to the summoning grounds was nothing faster than a crawl, but despite the hours of exposure, there had been no hobgoblin raid. I’d even relaxed enough from the constant threat of attack to enjoy the dinner Mrs. Bilberry had packed for me—sticky apricot chicken, steaming garlicky flatbread so I wouldn’t get the glaze of the chicken all over my clothes, grilled asparagus spears, even a bottle of chilled Riesling!

Ossian hadn’t wanted anything, offering the excuse that he’d already fed for the evening, but he did remark that if I enjoyed the food Mrs. Bilberry prepared here, then I was to be astounded by the quality I’d find in the Court of Beasts. It was nothing but the freshest food all the time, every time. Then, in a rare show of nostalgia, he regaled me with stories of the court he had grown up in. The éan sídhe—fairy birds—who sang sweeter than any bird. The week-long celebrations of every solstice and equinox where there were games of friendly competition, dancing, and feasting. The presentation of milk whenever a new child was born or an elder passed, persuading the great Cat Sídhe to leave the soul unmolested. The annual migration of the silver herons that resembled comets streaking across the sky.

And how his younger brother Callan had tainted every memory with his treachery.

“But we’ll make new ones,” he promised me. “And soon, too, for we are here.”

I’d been so lost in his stories that I hadn’t paid much mind to the landscape, as it was dark and there was no moon to see by. Presently, we turned down a country road and then I smelled it: rotting apples.

We were by an apple orchard.

A swath of fallow field separated us, but if I squinted really hard, I could just make out the details of a split-rail fence.

I stood up in my stirrups, peering down the road and to the left. A forest. From its darker outline against the star-swept sky, I knew those pointed spears to be those of red cedar and the rounder canopies to be of walnut.

The farmhouse where I’d lost the ember was just across that orchard.

From the piercing look Ossian gave me, his hand resting on the big pouch on his belt, I felt the need to explain: “I just, uh, smelled something strange.”

“The world is changing with the seasons. I detect nothing unusual.”

“Your nose is better than mine,” I agreed, sitting back in the saddle and fixing my gaze straight ahead.

“Turn here,” the fae king told the wagon driver, leading his horse into the field to the right. The frosted leaves of the clover cover crop flattened under the passage of its hooves.

“This is where your magic-sensing doodad told you I resonated?” I asked, letting my horse have its head so it could pick its preferred path after Ossian. It made an eerie amount of sense, considering how the ember in the farmhouse hearth had obeyed me, but I wasn’t sure if it was for that same reason Ossian had picked this spot.

“It a scrying sphere, not a doodad, and yes, it is. And a fine place at that. This wide sky, an unplowed field with so much green life still alive in the soil. Two considerable forces of nature, I daresay. Come along.”

Blustering breaths and creaking leather followed us as the draft horses strained to pull the wagon over the uneven terrain. The Brothers, each of them weary, could no longer muzzle the bear, but the beast was so tired from fighting his restraints for the last few hours that he only grunted whenever the wagon jostled from side to side. When it was clear the horses could no longer haul his bulk despite the whip lashing across their sweat-soaked flanks, Ossian declared, “This is good enough.”

He dismounted, produced the scrying sphere, and trudged through the ankle-deep clover without a lantern to light his way. The amethyst within the sphere provided enough violet light for him to see by, paling and brightening when some unseen condition was met.

“Meadow, over here.” He replaced the sphere in his belt and held out his hand. When I reached out to him, he said sharply, “Not your hand. The coat. You must feel the air.”

“Does that mean I should get naked?” I snipped. “How much air am I supposed to feel?”

“Enough.” His hand closed over the fur, and he slung it over his shoulder like he was preparing to model for a winter-themed fashion magazine. Then he rolled his eyes at the sight of my foraging bag. “This time I must insist. You cannot have anything on your person that might interfere with the magic. Your necklaces, except the rubies I gave you, and that bag must go.”

No, a little voice whispered inside my head. I realized now that voice was coming from my oak tree. Maybe it had all along.

But the magic, I protested.

No.

“Meadow. Time is of the essence.”