Page 51 of The Longing

The town bustles around us. The street is wide, pavements on either side raised up by several steps to keep the long clothing out of the mud and dirt. It’s lined with shops, the bottle glass studded windows filled with wares.

“So, the inhabitants are Faerie?” I ask.

“The inhabitants are witches and warlocks,” Fenrother replies, scanning the area as if he’s expecting someone. “The offspring of Faerie and humans.”

My blood runs thickly in my veins. “Faerie and human?”

Fenrother looks down at me. “The Yeavering cannot survive without humans, even if they are not welcome here.”

I feel my internal organs chill.

“But no one will touch you, mate,” Fenrother adds and continues walking up the street towards the open square. “Provided you stay by my side,” he says over his shoulder.

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I double my pace, duck my head, and catch up with him.

If there’s any trouble, Fenrother is going to be at the heart of it, and my only hope is to stick with him like glue.

Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

ALICE

The marketplace is a hive of activity, filled with the scents of woodsmoke and produce. It surrounds a permanent stone structure, open sides and solid roof, divided roughly into stalls which then spread out around it in a haphazard fashion.

My eyes are practically on stalks as I take in my new surroundings.

There are stalls piled high with a mixture of vegetables I recognise and plenty I don’t. Clothing stalls flutter with fabrics in various hues, a lot less black than I’d have expected. There are stalls with huge tubs filled with multi-coloured powders. Anywhere else these could be spices, but here, in the Yeavering, they have to be something different.

I give Fenrother a nudge. He’s on edge but as yet nothing has happened, so I’m beginning to have hope we might not bring about market-geddon.

“What are those?” I ask, pointing to the piles of powder.

“They’re spells, my dear,” a woman from a nearby stall says.

She’s tall, pretty, and her dress is close fitting, emphasising her natural…assets. I feel like a frump next to her in my warmclothing. Her eyes are anything but human though, dark spots which seem to see into my soul.

“Human?” she queries.

“My mate,” Fenrother snarls.

I think if she could have backed up, she would have, but the stall behind hers means she has nowhere to go.

“Our natural magic is limited, depending on our sires or dams,” she says, keeping her voice even whilst eyeing my Wyrm, “so we require spells. Some Faerie provide these for us, at a price.” Her pretty face sours as she says the words. “Those who peddle them, no better than thieves.” She spits, glaring at the stall holder who has the spells.

He huffs and folds his arms.

My head reels from this knowledge. The Yeavering has remained a mysterious place to humans, and I’m beginning to see why.

I’m beginning to understand why the Faerie saved us. And I’m beginning to see why they keep us out.

Fenrother growls low in his throat, catching my attention. He’s staring down a line of stalls at another creature, this one heads above the rest of the crowd.

A centaur. His chestnut flanks shine under the sun, muscled torso on display. He moves his bulk through the throngs easily as they part ahead of him.

Given Fenrother is also head and shoulders above most of the inhabitants, it’s no surprise when the centaur spots him and, to my increasingly anxious stomach, he makes a beeline for us.

Fenrother tucks me behind him, his wings extending and his tail wrapping around my right leg, as the centaur approaches us. My heart beats swifter as the great creature’s hooves ring out against the stone flags, witches and warlocks scurrying out of his way.

I spot the large sword strapped to his side, and the bandolier which runs over his impressive chest is filled with daggers. He is as weaponised as Fenrother is not.

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