Page 60 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
“Or a failed champion,” I say quietly.
The thin, membranous shield beneath her hand begins to darken. It hardens, turns to stone, then starts to crack, creeping down and up at the same time. We watch it spread in jagged silence until Neirin takes a sharp breath, eyes wide with barely hidden terror.
“Fancy testing out that rapier of yours?”
“Not really.” I swallow, steeling myself. “But I’ll have to, eventually, right?”
Neirin gives a rigid nod.
I extract my hand from his and unsheathe the rapier in a fluid motion that doesn’t betray the cold terror in my chest. My fingersare a vice on the hilt, until I remember what Neirin said.Hold your sword like it’s a bird.I loosen my grip and raise the blade as I step toward the barrier.
“Can I pass through it?” I ask.
“You’re part of my court,” Neirin tells me. “It’s no more than air to you.”
I put distance between myself and the girl, then take a tentative step through. The barrier passes over me like mist, leaving a faint sheen on my skin.
I swipe my blade in the air, catching her eye. Her nostrils flare. She can smell it, like a fairy would. Odd.
She hunches and stares me down. I don’t flinch; I just wait to see what she’ll do, though my heart is hammering fast.
I don’t have to wait long.
She charges forward with no sense of self-preservation. I flick my wrist like the blade is a fishing line, just as Neirin taught me. My movements are as controlled as hers are wild. The thin blade slashes her arm, and she lets out a piercing shriek as blood—still red, still warm—leaks from her flesh and washes away the coal. She rights herself and rushes me again.
I dodge back and swipe again, catching the palm of her outstretched hand. This time, I smell her flesh as it sizzles. She recoils and then lunges once more for me. She’s slower now, her steps becoming heavy, clumsier. I’ve poisoned her.
She makes one last helpless flail, the jerky motion almost knocking me off balance. My sword hardly glances her neck, just nicks her throat, but it’s enough. The final brush of iron makes her stumble, slowly, to the ground. She twitches at my feet, face in the dirt. The mark on the shield remains, but it stops spreading. It seeps into the cracks and hardens like old cement.
A cool breeze shoots through me, and I glance around in surprise. It was warmer on Neirin’s side of the barrier, far more comfortable.My hair stands on end, and a sense of wrongness cuts through me like iron. I’m frozen, staring into the dark forest—into the truth of Eu gwlad, until I hear Neirin’s voice.
“You’re a quick study.”
His hand breaches the shield, reaching for me. I take it without thought and let him pull me back into his timeless court, into his grasp, and Y Lle Tywyll fades to little more than a strange dream.
19
dawnsio gyda’r meirw
(DANCING WITH THE DEAD)
The next time I wake, it’s night but not true dark. It’s the moment just before sunset, when the sky is bruised purple, glowing pink and gold at the edges, and it hangs there without changing. A note lies on my bedside table. The missive is simple: there will be a ball tonight, in the conservatory, and Neirin suggests I dress nicely. He acknowledges in a postscript that his idea of nice and my idea are two very different things, but he will defer to my modesty and good taste and call my choice the height of fashion.
I laugh as I go to the wardrobe, wishing there were a way for me to reply quickly. To speak to Neirin whenever I want. I itch for it, for the silly back-and-forths and half-whispered confidences.
An hour later I leave my room wearing a dress with a purple gossamer silk skirt, the same color as a fresh sunset. Long, sheer sleeves billow to my wrists, but I’m not daring enough to go without my coat to cover them—yet. The fabric is fine, shining like a spider’s web and terribly dramatic. It’s certainly not something I would have picked before, but I’m not Sabrina these days. I’m Habren, and Habren is exciting.
Neirin hurries down the corridor in a velvet tailcoat of a midnight hue. It’s littered with button stars and embroidered with silver thread.
“You weren’t at dinner.” He extends a hand. “Will you be strong enough for dancing?”
“Humans aren’t that weak.”
“Are you sure?”
I scowl but take his hand anyway. My skin warms against his, and I think this must be what ladies guard against when they wear gloves to balls. Neirin leads me down the steps, and we make happy conversation about nothing at all. Here, in the house, we never talk of serious things, and no one asks who will wash the dishes. I like it, and maybe I could pretend that it’s always been mine.
“I feel much stronger now,” I tell him as we enter a corridor so narrow that he has to fall behind me and drop my hand. “I’ll be ready to continue our journey in the morning.”
