Page 18 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
“Funny,” I say. “Because I heard you needed us to go in because your lot die if they try.”
His charming smile falters but doesn’t drop. “You’re certainly more informed than the other idiots the king has sent down there to their deaths. So, what do you seek? Fortune? Fame? The love of some boy who’s never looked your way?”
I shrug blithely. “People go for useless things like that? No, I want what matters. I want immortality.”
Let him think I’m another desperate mortal, fighting futilely against time.
“You are clever, then.” He tilts his head again, a raven on his perch. His curls shift and part to reveal a pointed ear and the silver earrings that sparkle along the shell of it. A small hoop hangs from the other. “What’s your name, rabbit?”
I lift my chin. “Habren.”
“Habren.” He rolls the word over his tongue. The corners of his lips quirk. “That isn’t your real name.”
“Habren” is an old version of Sabrina. She was a princess drowned in the Severn by her stepmother, and the river takes its name from her. I asked Mam once why she would be so unkind as to name me after a murdered princess when Ceridwen took her name from a goddess-witch of old. Mam said then, as we gathered by the crackling fire, that the Severn was the lifeblood of Wales, its tributaries flowing through our land, connecting each town, each village and running, impossibly, upstream.
“The railway is making slow progress through Wales,” Dad added, “because that’s what the English want. They want the people separated, the language stunted and the stories forgotten. So they keep the roads rotten and the railways short—but they cannot stop the Severn.”
So, Habren is not my name, but it’s close, and all the best lies sprout from a seed of truth.
“Names have power,” I say. “I like to keep mine close to my chest.”
“You gave me your friend’s name, earlier.”
I’ve been running through the woods yelling for Ceridwen loud enough that every fairy in the forest must have heard, not just him. I tell myself that I couldn’t have known that any of this was even real, but I still feel stupid.
“What was it? Ceri—”
“That’s a nickname.” It’s a stupid excuse, but I can’t think of anything else.
His lips twitch. “I do admire the human ability to lie.”
“Must be a shame having to besohonest,” I say, my words dripping with sarcasm. He might not be able to lie, but I don’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth. “What’s your name?”
He eyes me carefully, silence building between us.
“Neirin,” he admits, reluctance coloring his name.
Dad has been right twice. They cannot lie, and names have power in Gwlad y Tylwyth Teg. My one power, my only card, will be lies.
“And why were you following me, Neirin?”
He fixes me with an admonishing look. “Just because I must tell the truth, that doesn’t mean I am honor bound to answer every question.”
“Then why tell me your name if you didn’t have to?”
Neirin flashes a dazzling, cutting smile. “Perhaps I wanted you to have it.”
I can only snort in response and, when I twitch, he watches thetic with open curiosity. As he takes a step toward me a scent of vanilla and firewood radiates from his skin, filling the gap between us. It almost makes my mouth water.
I should step away, but I hold firm. He needs to know I’m not to be trifled with.
“Perhaps I find you trustworthy,” he tries again, eyes still raking over my face.
“Then you’re a fool.”
He lets out a quiet hum. “Well, it’ll be hard to work with such a dedicated liar, but I can compromise.”
“Work with?”
