Read Online Twelve Days of Faery by W. R. Gingell - Free Book Online
Authors: W. R. Gingell
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next?”
“Harvest more magic to trace, I think,” said Althea. “She was holding back something important. It might help to compare her story with the stories of other fae.”
Markon found himself smiling at her single-mindedness. “I meant what will we do now? If she’s following us, we can’t go back to the Door.”
“Oh, that. So long as we get there first and shut it behind us, she can’t follow us. Still, we’ll lead her about for a bit and hope she becomes weary of following us.”
Althea walked them through the forest until Markon no longer cared if the fae was following or not. His legs were hurting, his lower back was wet with sweat, and the only thing he could think about apart from his bed was a refreshing wash in his ablutions chamber.
He might have broken and complained like a travel-weary child if he hadn’t at last recognised a few familiar formations of trees and realised that they were very close to where they’d stepped into Faery.
Althea said: “Wait here, please,” and took a few steps forward. By now used to obeying her, Markon stayed where he was and watched the swift, economical motions she made with her hands. He wished he could see what it was she was really doing.
He was so caught up in those delicate movements that it wasn’t until Althea said: “Markon,” that he recalled his surroundings. It was the deliberate, careful usage of his name that made him really pay attention. Althea’s back was still to him, but she said crisply: “Duck now , please.”
Markon dropped to his haunches while she was still speaking, and felt the swish of something rather hefty sweep over his head. Then Althea wasn’t in front of him anymore, and a brief, violent struggle was taking place directly behind him.
It was all over in the miniscule amount of time that it took him to turn, still crouched. To his vast amusement, Althea was sitting on the old fae, twisting up one scrawny arm behind the fae’s back without deference to her age. Beside them in the fallen leaves was a good sturdy walking stick that had just whistled over his head in an attempt to knock Markon out, if he wasn’t mistaken.
He heard Althea say, very softly: “If you try to hurt my human again, I will flay the skin from your body and use it as a rain duster.”
“Mercy!” squealed the fae, her skinny legs wriggling. “Mercy, lady! Wouldn’t have killed him, I just wanted to come through!”
“A stick!” said Althea, her voice thick with scorn. “You really did need that magic, didn’t you?”
“Wouldn’t really have hurt him! Just quieted him and sold him on.”
“Oh, be quiet!” Althea said, with a pinching motion. The fae abruptly stopped talking, though Markon would have been willing to bet that she did so only because Althea had laid a spell on her. “And be still! You will not be free to move until we are gone from Faery. Be silent. Be still.”
“Are you going to leave her like that?” said Markon, his eyes dancing.
Althea stood up, smoothing her hair and tugging her bodice straight again. “Yes, and serve her right if a passing will’o’the’whisp decides to dance on her nose until she can move again! She won’t bother us now. If I’d known how little magic she really had left to her I would have left her locked in the cottage.”
“That would have been a pity,” Markon said, despite aching legs, sweaty clothes and general tiredness. “I wouldn’t have missed that little scuffle for the world! Who taught you how to twist an arm like that?”
For a brief moment Althea looked taken aback, and Markon was afraid that he’d accidentally stirred more unpleasant memories. Then she laughed; a real, amused chuckle of mirth that warmed him from head to toe, and said: “They taught me that at Holbrooks when I was studying to become an enchantress. The Head said that magic isn’t always reliable and that sometimes a well-placed punch can do more than a
“Harvest more magic to trace, I think,” said Althea. “She was holding back something important. It might help to compare her story with the stories of other fae.”
Markon found himself smiling at her single-mindedness. “I meant what will we do now? If she’s following us, we can’t go back to the Door.”
“Oh, that. So long as we get there first and shut it behind us, she can’t follow us. Still, we’ll lead her about for a bit and hope she becomes weary of following us.”
Althea walked them through the forest until Markon no longer cared if the fae was following or not. His legs were hurting, his lower back was wet with sweat, and the only thing he could think about apart from his bed was a refreshing wash in his ablutions chamber.
He might have broken and complained like a travel-weary child if he hadn’t at last recognised a few familiar formations of trees and realised that they were very close to where they’d stepped into Faery.
Althea said: “Wait here, please,” and took a few steps forward. By now used to obeying her, Markon stayed where he was and watched the swift, economical motions she made with her hands. He wished he could see what it was she was really doing.
He was so caught up in those delicate movements that it wasn’t until Althea said: “Markon,” that he recalled his surroundings. It was the deliberate, careful usage of his name that made him really pay attention. Althea’s back was still to him, but she said crisply: “Duck now , please.”
Markon dropped to his haunches while she was still speaking, and felt the swish of something rather hefty sweep over his head. Then Althea wasn’t in front of him anymore, and a brief, violent struggle was taking place directly behind him.
It was all over in the miniscule amount of time that it took him to turn, still crouched. To his vast amusement, Althea was sitting on the old fae, twisting up one scrawny arm behind the fae’s back without deference to her age. Beside them in the fallen leaves was a good sturdy walking stick that had just whistled over his head in an attempt to knock Markon out, if he wasn’t mistaken.
He heard Althea say, very softly: “If you try to hurt my human again, I will flay the skin from your body and use it as a rain duster.”
“Mercy!” squealed the fae, her skinny legs wriggling. “Mercy, lady! Wouldn’t have killed him, I just wanted to come through!”
“A stick!” said Althea, her voice thick with scorn. “You really did need that magic, didn’t you?”
“Wouldn’t really have hurt him! Just quieted him and sold him on.”
“Oh, be quiet!” Althea said, with a pinching motion. The fae abruptly stopped talking, though Markon would have been willing to bet that she did so only because Althea had laid a spell on her. “And be still! You will not be free to move until we are gone from Faery. Be silent. Be still.”
“Are you going to leave her like that?” said Markon, his eyes dancing.
Althea stood up, smoothing her hair and tugging her bodice straight again. “Yes, and serve her right if a passing will’o’the’whisp decides to dance on her nose until she can move again! She won’t bother us now. If I’d known how little magic she really had left to her I would have left her locked in the cottage.”
“That would have been a pity,” Markon said, despite aching legs, sweaty clothes and general tiredness. “I wouldn’t have missed that little scuffle for the world! Who taught you how to twist an arm like that?”
For a brief moment Althea looked taken aback, and Markon was afraid that he’d accidentally stirred more unpleasant memories. Then she laughed; a real, amused chuckle of mirth that warmed him from head to toe, and said: “They taught me that at Holbrooks when I was studying to become an enchantress. The Head said that magic isn’t always reliable and that sometimes a well-placed punch can do more than a
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