7. Lesson One
Quietness often brings a sense of peace, but it's also unnerving. I stir awake after my first night in Faerie with the absolute, definitive certainty that I did not dream. That I could not. The monsters that inhabit these lands do not prey on their own.
Cool silk hugs my body, the nightgown so different from the ones I'm used to. I pass my fingers through my messy waves and stifle a yawn. Happy birthday to me.
The duvet I placed on the mirror suddenly flies about the room, a throng of curses emanating from it, and I jolt to my feet on the bed.
"What in the name of Morpheus—" a familiar voice utters.
"Baka?" I climb down the mattress and help her wrestle free of the fabric.
She blinks up at me. "Why was yer duvet covering the mirror?"
"I was afraid," I admit.
"Bah! Ye think a duvet would stop the Shadow King if he meant to visit ye in the dead of night?"
I wince at how ridiculous it sounds. "I didn't want him to see me."
"Child, the Shadow King sees all."
I half-expect her to present me with more salacious dresses, but she lays down black undergarments, a tunic, and pants on my bed.
The set is similar to the hooded ensemble One wears, and I run my fingers over the clothes. "How do they sew the threads so closely together? The fabric is like nothing I've ever seen."
"It comes from the new world."
Faerie connects my world—the old world—to the new, but I know very little about this realm.
"The new world's seamstresses are very talented," I say.
Baka grins, showing her crooked blue teeth. "You could say that."
I slip into the clothes, following Baka's instructions, shocked by the sight of myself in the mirror wearing pants. The stretchy fabric molds my legs and feels way smoother than the socks we wear underneath our dresses. I run my palms over my hips and backside, the fit surprisingly snug and comfortable, and test the tunic's hood.
Baka adjusts the belt on my left hip. "Let me help with the boots." She reaches down and teaches me how to lace them up, and I quickly get the hang of it.
The knee-high boots are doubled with a thin metallic layer, and the threads holding them in place shimmer with silver accents. They cover my legs and feel comfortable, so I don't mind these new clothes as much as yesterday's dress. If unconventional, they show almost no skin.
Baka works my hair into a thick braid, the long strands tied away from my face, and passes me an over-the-shoulder bag. "I packed a breakfast for you."
My stomach grumbles. I haven't eaten Fae food yet because of Father's advice, but I'm famished. I rummage through the bag, find a perfectly benign apple, and sink my teeth into its soft flesh. The juicy piece of fruit melts on my tongue, and I swallow the fruit down in six or seven bites.
A shadow appears in the mirror, but this time, it thickens into solid form before One steps out of the glass. "Good. You're ready."
I wet my lips, trying to adjust to the fact that he can walk in and out of my bedroom at will and discard the apple core discreetly into the trash. "What are we going to do?"
"You'll see."
The mischievous edge of his voice riddles me with adrenaline.
One leads me through the door and into the tunnels. He wouldn't look so calm if he planned to torture me, would he?
I can't keep all the anxiety inside and blurt out, "Are you going to hurt me?"
He stops cold at that, but he doesn't meet my gaze, merely staring at the path ahead. "Why would I want to hurt you, kitten?"
There he goes again, answering my question with a question. "Because you're Fae."
Both fists balled at his sides, he starts walking again. "Is that all?"
I pick up the pace to keep up with his long strides. "If the question makes you so mad, why don't you just say no?"
"I've been nothing but polite—" The word is heavy with meaning, full of fire and disappointment. A hot line of shame tickles along my spine before he finally spins around to face me. "Look. I won't pretend my world is always pleasant. It's dangerous and unforgiving, but I plan to train you, not hurt you. Okay?"
The answer soothes the ache between my ribs. "Okay."
He's holding his answers close and his secrets closer. A small voice in my head urges patience. If I'm being tricked, I'll know soon enough. No need to kick and scream just yet.
We reach the last bend in the tunnel and cross through the door to the outside. The humidity is still jarring, the air not as heavy as it was last night, but probably building toward a scorching afternoon given the early hours. A small winding path along the walls of the castle offers glimpses of the interior courtyard, but tall green hedges obstruct the view.
Star-shaped blooms run along the covered porch. The series of umbrella-like clusters sag away from thin, leafless stems, hanging a few inches above our heads. Absolutely gorgeous. At the end of the small path, we emerge inside an open-air war room.
Mesh walls with diamond patterns open to a towering row of bushes on each side of the square-shaped training ground, their branches laden with lush foliage. The set-up offers seclusion and privacy from the outside world—and no doubt a respite from the hot, humid day. The sun sneaks past the vegetation in a few golden spots, casting shadows upon the sleek gray floors.
Weapons of different shapes and sizes hang on the wall closest to us, and a door-shaped mirror with round edges on its upper end is set in the stones next to it. So far, almost every room in the castle has direct access to the sceawere.
A blue, cylinder-shaped bag half my size hangs from the ceiling on the opposite side of the room. Various mannequins and targets pepper the space. The wooden back wall is painted with red and blue concentric circles, at least fifty yards away from where we're standing.
One picks a crossbow from the bunch. "The Shadow Court is in charge of nightmares, dreams, and fantasies." He aims at one of the targets on the opposite wall, and the metallic bolt lands straight in the center of the bullseye. "Nightmares sometimes take on a life of their own, and it's my job—along with the other hunters—to keep them in line."
I peruse the assorted weapons. "You hunt…nightmares?"
"Yes. I'm in charge of the rogue nightmares, and Two keeps the Dreaming's magic from fading."
"And Three?" I ask quickly. "The red-faced Lord mentioned him at dinner."
One rolls his shoulders back, the crossbow falling to his side. "Three weaves fantasies. They're more…volatile."
"Why are fantasies more volatile?" I ask, imitating his ominous tone. Not waiting for his answer, I lift a jeweled sword and wince at the weight, quickly returning it to its holder.
Knights always make it seem so easy during tournaments…
"Fantasies are the dreams that overcome you when you're awake. They lurk at the edge of the mortals' subconscious and influence both dreams and nightmares."
A chill tightens the skin at the nape of my neck. "If you guys are in charge of it all, what does the king do?"
A dark cloud pulses around him, his lips pressing together for a fleeting moment. "The king rules over the entire kingdom."
Sounds like the king doesn't lift a finger around here.
Hands linked behind my back, I skip closer to One. "And why do you wear a mask?"
The stiffness in his spine eases, and a touch of warmth returns to his voice. "You want to see my face, kitten?"
Yes. If I could see his eyes, I'd know whether I could trust him or not.
He rubs the narrow path between the obsidian mask and the edge of his hood, allowing me a glimpse of his ear. "The mask protects our magic. It needs to be worn at all times in the sceawere."
I arch a playful brow, the answer more of a diversion than a true explanation. "We're in Faerie, now."
The corners of his mouth curl up. "Even if I wanted to remove my mask in your presence, I wouldn't. As long as you don't have the Faerie sight, it would be too dangerous."
"How does a mortal get the Faerie sight?" I dead-pan.
"You'll be tested, and if we both do our jobs correctly, you'll pass. The king will grant you the Faerie sight, then."
I think back to his earlier phrasing. "So you plan to train me, not hurt me, but you can't promise I won't get hurt."
"This is real life, kitten. Anyone who promises you'd never get hurt is lying—or plans to lock you in a tower." He leans closer, and my confidence waivers. "The king agreed to work your training around your schedule, but every seedling has to put in the effort."
I hate how the bite of his magic already feels familiar. But the shape of him—tall and muscular, cut from a block of moving shadows—I'll never get used to.
"And if I don't?"
His lips press together in a grim line. "I think you already know the answer to that. Anyone can be broken, but the Shadow King would break you quickest of all. If you made trouble."
Anyone can be broken…A bitter-sweet edge glazes the words, and I get the feeling he's talking from experience.
Eyes cast down, I play with the end of my thick braid. "What do you know of the bet my father made with the king?"
"Only the king and your father know the exact terms of the deal. I'm supposed to train you so that you can be initiated in our way of life."
"Train me how, exactly?"
He tips his chin to the crossbow and hooks a metal lever to the front. "Since you've never trained with weapons before, a crossbow is a good place to start. You use the lever to push the string back." He acts out his instructions. "With the nut in the open position, you only have to use a bit of force to span it."
My curiosity is dampened by the reminder that I'm not here of my own free will, but still...my fingers itch to touch the sleek, silvery bolt.
I sink my nails into my palms not to reach for it. "In Demeter, women aren't allowed to train with bows."
One smiles and hands over the loaded weapon. "As you so graciously pointed out, we're in Faerie, now."
I pick it up slowly, like I'm reluctant to touch it at all. I can't let my excitement show. "Teaching me how to use deadly weapons is a stupid strategy on your king's part."
"Are you planning to shoot me, kitten?" he asks, apparently delighted by the threat.
"Mm. Not for now." It's heavier than expected, almost as heavy as the sword, and I swallow hard. "These bolts are different from the ones my father uses."
"They're made to hunt nightmares, not venison. Now, aim at the target."
A thrill shoots up my spine as I rise the crossbow toward the closest blue and red circles. I've seen men do this many times. Seems simple enough.
I squeeze the trigger, and the power of the shot amazes me. The bolt buries inside a hay dummy 25 yards to our left, eons away from where I intended it to go.
Lips curled down, I expect One to make fun of me, but he hands me another bolt and the lever and waits for me to reload it myself. Like a real teacher would. And he's patient, too.
I struggle for a second, my muscles screaming in protest, but quickly raise the loaded crossbow at the target again.
"Good. Now, use your powers," One says. "Feel the weapon in your hands. Concentrate on the string. Feel the tension there, ready to be released upon your command." He grazes the string with his middle and index fingers.
Goosebumps scatter on my neck, his breath hot on the shell of my ear, and I shake out the urge to look at him, concentrating on his instructions instead.
"The bolt is power. The string is a way for you to control that power. Humans practice this art for years, but we get to cheat our way to a perfect aim. Harness the energy in the string and concentrate on where you want the bolt to go."
Distracted by his proximity, I press the trigger again. The bolt shoots to the edge of the intended target, and magic buzzes at my fingertips.
A masculine chuckle chimes in the space between us. "You've used your powers before."
I bite the inside of my cheeks to mask my giddiness. I should not be enjoying myself. "Why am I here? Really. Why does the Shadow King want me?" I ask, reloading the weapon.
One straightens my aim, his arm flush against mine. "The king needs you here because the magic running in your veins means power for the kingdom."
Maybe a quick chat about personal space would do us both good. The heat of his body is dizzying, the scent of campfire and ripe pears raising all the hairs on my neck to attention.
A tiny half-moon scar is visible under his chin, and I stare at it for a moment. "If all he wants is my magic, why doesn't he just take it?"
My dark teacher pauses for a long, long time. "Maybe he will, but he'd prefer for it to grow as you serve the realm." His quiet tone brims with something sweeter than foreboding. More like…hope.
A chill tightens the skin at the base of my neck as I let the bolt fly. It lands slightly closer to the center, but my arms are simply too sore to fire another.
One retrieves the crossbow and hangs it back on the wall. "You can practice in this gym anytime you want. Hand-to-hand combat will be the real challenge, but you're not ready—you need weeks of physical training to prepare for that. I'll also teach you how to blend in with the shadows?—"
"I've been avoiding the guards back home for months. Blending with the shadows isn't that hard." My mind catches up with my boastful claim, and my cheeks flush.
Where the crops did that come from?
One tucks his tongue beneath his canine, his jaw slightly askew. "You're a surprising student, Miss Darcy." He looks as if he's about to add something, but he just spins around and waves for me to follow.
You don't have to impress him, remember? He's a man, but he's not a diplomat, a guest, or a suitor. He's still your captor.
We leave the gym through the sliding door in the target wall and march under a set of latticed archways past another green hedge until we reach a wide trail. A series of balconies similar to the one I saw last night run along the stone building. Some of them encompass a single room, while others run along the curves of the castle.
A tall Hawthorn tree towers in the middle of the gigantic interior courtyard, and my heart booms in my chest. "Wait. Where are we?"
"The king's sacred gardens. The castle's interior courtyard is completely isolated from the rest of the shadow realm. You'd have to run for fifteen minutes in that direction before you'd reach its limits. The trails circle back after that."
That's…big.
"I've been here before. In a dream." My voice shakes with a mix of anguish and joy.
He shakes his head. "Mortals do not dream of Faerie. The threads of the Dreaming don't allow it. You must be thinking of a different tree."
He's not lying, but he's wrong. Another loophole to the "Fae can't lie" rule. If a Fae believes he's saying the truth, he can spread false information. This Hawthorn tree is an exact replica of the one I saw in my dreams, and while it's similar to the scriptures' sacred tree, it's different enough for me to be sure.
"In Demeter, we have a sacred tree too," I explain. "It's in Gaia's temple, but it's not half as big or beautiful as this one—" I force my mouth shut.
I'd love to let him know exactly how wrong he is, given how many times I've dreamt of this lovely tree, but it's smarter to keep a few secrets to myself. If I'm not supposed to dream of Faerie, maybe it means something.
One motions to the smooth rock path. "You will run in the gardens for half an hour, four times a day—morning, midday, evening and night—until you can do so without fatigue."
His strange command pulls me out of my fascination for the Hawthorn. "Why?"
"To get in shape. I will teach you how to use the punching bag and lift weights. The bibliotheca will be open from noon till midnight, if you want to check out some books. Since you're meant to accompany me to the new world to hunt nightmares, you not only need some muscle, but some inkling of what awaits you there, sheltered as you were in Demeter," he says matter-of-factly, his contempt for my country plain as day.
"I don't appreciate your tone, and I'll have you know that I'm in excellent shape," I clip.
"Bah! Maybe by your standards, but you have no idea what the real world is like."
His wry smile irks my temper, and I cross my arms. "I know quite enough, thank you."
"Don't lie to me, kitten. Even from behind this mask, I see your rosy cheeks and hear your quickened heartbeats. The uniform fits you like a glove, and you stand an inch taller in it than you did yesterday in your old-fashioned dress. You're curious." He buries his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "If you have to stay here, you might as well learn something useful."
To my horror, he's right. If I need to play by his rules, then I might as well learn as much as I can. It's not like getting in better shape will make me lose the bet.
If only I knew the exact terms…
Mara runs in our direction, wearing only a camisole and lycra shorts—as Baka called the strange undergarments. She slows down as she draws near and eyes me over. "It's hot as hell. Aren't you sweaty in that?"
My gaze flicks to the ground between us. "I'm alright."
I am a little hot, but the way Mara stands there without an ounce of shame floors me.
One gestures to the second-floor balcony towering behind us. "This is a common area for all trainees. You can grab a bite to eat up there at any hour, and the bibliotheca is right through these doors." He points to the gold-plated double doors under the balcony.
A man stalks out of the shade of the common area and curls his hands around the railing. "Mara," he calls out.
The redhead waves goodbye. "I'm late. I'll see you later."
The newcomer's mask is made of shattered glass, and my heart hammers.
"That's…" I trail off, shocked.
"Two."
Blood races at my temples. "He's?—"
"Identical? Not precisely." One offers his brother a curt nod, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth.
As precisely as I can tell, the newcomer is an exact copy of the man by my side, though I have only his body type, mouth, and chin to compare. A swimmer's body, Mara called it, though I'm not sure how that expression equates to appealing.
But it does. No question about it.
The shattered glass on his mask reflects the bright sun and blinds me for a second. My entire being quakes under his scrutiny, his predatory stance curdling my blood, but he quickly slips back inside the building.