Page 108 of Realm of Nightmares
“Mm.” He released her and she took a step back. “Has your mate?”
“I don’t…” Maeve hesitated. Her mind emptied. There was no obvious recollection, nothing of significance to consider. Her memories were erased from existence. A tiny bubble of panic lodged itself in the back of her throat. “I don’t know.”
The Lord of the Hunt studied her, apprehension brewing in the shadows of his too-bright gaze. “Have you ever heard of the witches of Fenmire?”
“I haven’t,” she replied, shaking her head. At least she didn’t think so, but she was no longer certain of such matters.
“The witches of Fenmire have a coven in the eastern lands, across the Gaelsong Sea. For years, they dwelled in numerous parts of the continent, keeping to themselves, but over time they were hunted down and burned at the stake. Many fear that which they do not understand…” He paced the grand hall, telling the history of the Fenmire witches like a story for all to hear, enunciating every word with clarity and conviction. “Eventually, they hid themselves away in the bogs of Fenmire. Though reclusive, they’re incredibly shrewd. Their magic is both archaic and powerful.”
“Are they dangerous, then?” Maeve asked.
“As witches, they are neither inherently good nor chaotically evil. Under most circumstances, they prefer to remain neutral.” He paused, his gaze swinging back to meet hers. “Unless, of course, you offend them.”
Maeve glanced down at her wrist. “Have I offended them somehow?”
“Unlikely,” he mused, coming to stand before her once more. The faerie light danced and played off the eerie pallor of his skin, causing him to morph between shadow and light. Making him look both fine and fearsome all at once. “If they deem someone worthy, it’s possible they might consider bestowing a blessing upon them. However, marks designed with witch thread are extremely rare.”
“This doesn’t make any sense.” She wrapped her arms around herself, struggling to put together whatever it was the Lord of the Hunt was attempting to explain. But all this talk of witches and marks, bonds and souls…it was utter nonsense. “Why would a witch I’ve never met bind me to someone I don’t know?”
The Lord of the Hunt stood motionless. His jaw dropped but he snapped it shut quickly. Murmurs and whispers spread through the crowd of onlooking Huntsmen as a scowl marred his pale brow. “Tell me why you are here, Dawnbringer.”
“I…” Nothing. There was another brief, fleeting stab of panic. It disarmed her, left her dizzy. Until she remembered the Strand on her forearm, the dagger piercing the pages of a book, the one binding her to Laurel. Of course. The book. “I need a book. A rather particular one, on guarding the realms.”
He ran his teeth along his bottom lip. “I know the one you speak of,” he said, nodding. “Excellent reading material. Especially if one plans on ripping open the realms again.”
Maeve stiffened.
“I don’t,” she snapped.
“You might,” he countered with a wide smile.
“And do you know where I can find it?”
“Yes.”
She waited, annoyance flaring to life inside her. Now he was just being insufferable.
“The book you seek is in the library.” His grin only widened. “The library in the Ether.”
“What?”Impossible. She whipped around, stalking away from him, knowing every pair of eyes in the grand hall were trained on her. Confusion muddled her thoughts and she grit her teeth against the onslaught. Why would Laurel tell her to retrieve the book from Diamarvh? Unless she didn’t realize it was in the Ether all this time. But Laurel was no fool. She would’ve found the book had she actually searched for it. Either Laurel didn’t know or the Lord of the Hunt was lying. Spinning back around, Maeve faced him. “But Laurel said the book was here and that I—”
“Your friend is mistaken,” he interjected, ice dripping from his tone. “The god of death requested the book be returned many moons ago.”
Maeve hesitated. There was something else. Something important. Something she was forgetting to ask.
“Is that all?” he asked, an air of finality in his voice.
“No.” She lurched forward, worried they were about to toss her out. There was more than a damn book that she required. The trouble was, she couldn’t remember. “I need your help. What I mean to say is I require the assistance of the Wild Hunt.”
“Require is a considerably bold choice of phrase.” He turned away from her, then seated himself upon his throne. Crossing one leg over his knee, he gestured in her direction. “Proceed.”
Maeve squeezed her eyes shut, struggling in vain to recall something,anything, about her purpose. She knew she needed the Wild Hunt, and she sought their support out of desperation. Out of hope. Images of the corridor leading to the grand hall flooded her mind. The spectacular paintings of the seasons—the emerald hills of Spring, the pink sandy beaches of Summer, the jewel-toned forests of Autumn, the snowy white wonderland of Winter. They reminded her of a world she knew, a place that was part of her heart. Part of her soul. Those extraordinary murals were more than just brushstrokes of loveliness painted on a canvas. They were the Four Courts of Faeven.
They were home.
Her eyes flew open. “My land is…it’s dying. There’s this dark magic, dark fae, and—” She couldn’t get the words out, couldn’t form complete sentences. Glimpses of the past filtered through her mind in blurry, out-of-focus images. Memories she couldn’t place. Faces she couldn’t name. “I can’t…I can’t remember.”
To her surprise, the grand hall fell silent. There was no laughing at her expense, no mocking at her ridicule. Instead, most of the faces of the Huntsmen remained guarded, their expressions mimicking that of concern and apprehension.
