Page 4 of The Kingdom Cursed By Iron

Ruth lifts her shoulders. “I’ve never met her, but I’ve sent a couple of patients to her in the past. They always come back but…”

“But what?”

“Take a gift. She’ll be more inclined to help you.”

“Anything in particular?” I ask, thinking of all the things fae like to trade in—youth, good looks, a talent.

Ruth nods.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got some chickens out back.”

Chapter 2

Itell myself that I don’t believe the stories, that changelings aren’t monsters—at least, not any more than the rest of us. I’ve been to Faerie; I’ve looked straight into the darkest heart of it. No matter what tales get told in Styrland about changelings and their nature, the reality can hardly be worse.

So then why is every inch of my skin prickling with apprehension as I follow Ruth’s directions? I don’t have to go far, as the crow flies, but it still feels like I’m stepping right out of civilization and into the unknown. The changeling lives just inside the border of the Kilda, somewhere most Styrlanders would never dream of setting foot, because it also holds the gate to Faerie, hidden among its trees. A place no human in their right mind would dare to go.

And yet even though I now know—and have fought—the kind of threats that might have wandered into Styrland through that gate, I still have to give my feet a stern talking to when I reach the first of the twisting trees. Their fallen leaves rustle under my feet as I step between the trunks, whispering for me to go back. But this isn’t the Emerald Forest, and there’s no magic making me hear their warnings. It’s all in my head. And my heart—because it’s my heart that wants me to stay away from everything fae. It's what’s making my feet drag and my nerves spike with apprehension. Part of me wants to never think or look upon anything from that world ever again. It knows that way lies pain.

And answers too.

There are so many things I don’t understand about myself, my abilities, the things I can do with metal. The magic truly came alive within me when I went to Faerie, but I sense that it was there, sleeping deep inside, long before that. Yet that doesn’t explain exactly how that magic became a part of me. Does it have something to do with my encounter with this part-fae creature as a baby? And what did my mother know about it? I can only hope that the changeling has answers for me.

I see the changeling’s house now, squatting in the striped shadows of the trees surrounding it. Its roof is made up of haphazard bundles of sticks, giving it a spiky, hostile appearance, as well as helping it to blend in among the forest branches. It reminds me of some of the Low-Fae dwellings in the Seelie realm, if less welcoming.

I force myself to call out as I approach, even though my throat fights back against me, turning what I’d hoped would be a confident greeting into a wavering question.

“Hello? Is anyone home?”

I hear movement inside, and even the cadence of it sets my teeth on edge. The clicking of hard soles against wood, too light and fast for human feet, and a scrabbling noise against the door. I take a step back, alarm rearing up at the moment the house’s occupant is revealed.

Faerie has all kinds of wondrous sights and interesting people populating it, but something about the combination here catches me off guard: The person who peers out at me from the doorway looks far from human, but not in the high-cheeked, elegant way of the High Fae. I guess when she steps forward into a patch of light that she must be a mix of Low Fae and human parentage. Her pupils are a fraction too large and dark, her skin so sallow it appears to be tinged blue, and it looks oddly stretched over her features. Her white hair falls around her in wispy waves, but it’s shot through with what I think at first are dried leaves, bleached of color. Until I realize that’s just where the texture of her hair changes around her crown and temples.

She’s beautiful, in an unsettling, ethereal way, and I try not to stare, my brain still growing accustomed to her strangeness.

“Hello,” I say again when she doesn’t rush to speak.

“What does she want?” the changeling asks, blinking at me. Her voice is high and reedy.

“Who?” I frown.

“She!” she hisses, pointing a bony finger at me. “What does she want?”

“Oh,” I say, realizing she means me. “I wanted to ask you a question. About my mother.”

The changeling shakes her head, turning as if to walk back into her house.

“I brought a gift,” I say, thrusting out my hand, which holds the dead chicken Ruth gave me an hour before.

The changeling whips back round—too quick for any human—and tilts her head.

“Tesha doesn’t know her mother,” she says, but she eyes the chicken with interest. It takes me a moment, still getting used to her strange way of speaking, to understand she’s just given me her name.

“But I think I might’ve been here before—with my mother, years ago,” I step forward as I speak, hand still outstretched like the chicken is some kind of shield. The changeling doesn’t move. Her eyes flick to my face.

“She knows Tesha?”

I don’t know if she’s talking about me or Mom, so I just forge ahead, trying to explain quickly before she changes her mind.

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