Page 58 of Curse the Fae

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Echoes from The Twisted Canals dwindle. Nightfall yawns into daybreak.

While the river Fae dream, I wind my hair atop my head, paddle from The Sunken Isle to my hidden cache of dry clothing, and change into a loose, sapphire dress. After donning my sandals, I wend my way through the lantern tunnels. As I sidle around the flaming vessels and several brooks, my mind wanders. I miss the sunrise dappling our village in shades of amber and rose. I miss the caravan where my sisters and I tell stories. I miss the morning calls flitting from our sanctuary, the sleepy groans of Lark and Juniper, and the stairs creaking under Papa Thorne’s weight as he traipses to the attic to wake us up.

I miss them, and I miss home, but the farther I travel, the more my vision adjusts to the darkness. The more I long to discover what exists in these depths, from its fauna to its currents.

I want to know if it’s possible to make a haven here, if the absence of light yields its own tranquility. Despite all I’ve witnessed, I want to believe solace can be found anywhere.

At length, I come to a dead end. Sighing, I pivot the way I came—but halt.

An overlapping melody rains into the passage, sprinkling the area in music. My pulse lunges into a sprint. Either these mystical fauna can sprout fingers and play instruments, or I have company.

The tune is metallic, tinkling across my skin. It’s a hauntingly beautiful stream of sound that tugs on my limbs, urging me to follow it. All the same, I brace my spear.

The tunnel splits in two directions. Rather than retrace my path, I take the opposite route and migrate toward the music. I’ve never heard this type of instrument before, but it reminds me of how a river might sing if it could, or how a trickling waterfall might sound if it had vocal cords.

The channel’s end leads to a small enclosure with ropes of foliage swaying from the rafters. A wide fountain resides in the center. There are no statues or cisterns, merely a ring of water hurling vertically into the air and splattering the ground. Yet the deluge is mellow, a quiet burst of liquid that illuminates the space.

What’s loud is the Fae seated in the fountain’s heart. What’s loud is the instrument he strums.

I lower the spear, wonder loosening my grip. Settled upon a stool, Elixir straddles an upright, sinuous apparatus, the object as tall as him. Rows of vertical strings pull taut inside the slender frame, the strings vibrating under Elixir’s ministrations. Although I’ve never seen one, I remember this tidbit from whispered tales of The Three: The ruler of the river plays a harp.

It’s an object of enchantment, as curvaceous as a shell. His hands swim over the instrument. As his sharp fingertips pluck, melodic noise pours from the strings.

His open robe hangs off his shoulders. Leggings encase his limbs, and his legs flank the instrument. Black hair falls over his profile as he leans back with the harp balanced on his shoulder. His arms lash, and his fingers claw at the strings.

Soon after, he slows down and pinches the cords slowly. The music is conflicted, beautiful, and harrowing. The performance achieves too many things at once. It floods my stomach, eases my muscles, and chips at my chest.

My gaze swings from the instrument to Elixir’s clenched eyelids. Pain flickers across his features, raw and tormented.

Comfort will not bring back what he’s lost.

The harp cries out. It’s the melody of grief, made manifest and resounding through this secluded room. It flows…and flows…and stops.

Elixir slumps, his digits curled over the strings, his eyes on ground. “Why are you here?”

Truly, I should have known. I pad inside the enclosure. “I was being defiant.”

“I know.” He drops his arms and flattens both palms on his splayed thighs. “You have done that often.”

In other words, he’s aware I’ve taken to scuttling about ever since the reptile battle. “The more I see of this world, the more I’ll know about it. Why haven’t you stopped me?”

“The more you act, the more I’ll know about you,” he echoes.

Meaning, the more he knows, the more he can distract me from winning?

Plausibly. Yet thinking about the mixture he gave me, I draw another conclusion. “That isn’t the only reason.”

His face shoots toward me, resentment drawing lines across his visage. That, and protectiveness. I wasn’t supposed to witness this moment. And while he would have roared days ago, he merely glares while his eyes reflect something entirely different.

With a thudding heart, I test that. “Would you like me to go?”

A muscle hammers in his jaw, but he doesn’t answer. That’s enough to pull me deeper into the room. “Where are we?”

“The Fountain of Tears,” he says. “It holds the tears of all who come here, so they may never forget what has ailed them.”

I condense my spear, set it against a wall, and pause before the spurting ring of water. “Why do you think someone would want to remember that?”

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