Page 47 of Defy the Fae

Tímien circles above us with several accompanying Parliament owls. Although this is an ideal time to visit The Horizon without being monitored, no chances are being taken. The flock is keeping surveillance for us.

Elixir shakes his head. “We would be surrendering the source material on a gamble.”

Juniper clutches the book to her chest. “It’s the only way. And it’s only one page.”

“It’s never just one page to you,” Lark empathizes, her voice softening in a way that’s foreign to my kin but remains a strength in her people—a fact I hadn’t appreciated until her.

“Well,” Juniper says. “I’ve got the Fable memorized.”

“Cypress truly agreed to this?” Cove asks, unable to believe it.

“Wonders never cease with him,” Puck replies with fondness. “Even if it took a level of convincing only Juniper could achieve.”

“It wasn’t just me,” Juniper argues. “He did it for you, too.”

“Usually, I fancy taking the credit as much as you do, but this was all your doing.”

“You underestimate your influence on him.”

There’s an earnestness to Juniper’s reply that grabs Puck’s attention. The satyr wheels toward her, his earrings tinkling with the movement. “Meaning?”

Juniper wavers, as if she’s said too much. “Just that he was your friend before he was mine, and he’s loyal to you. And to this cause.”

This isn’t a lie, nor is it the whole story. Although the Folk are unable to speak untruths—and we compensate by being masters of evasive word manipulation—our inability nevertheless attunes us better to mortal lies. Because we spend our lives dancing around dishonesty, we detect it easily in humans.

Juniper knows this. What’s more, she’s no stranger to Puck’s shrewdness. His knack for cunning and perception are the stuff of lore.

Either she’s too anxious to remember these facts or she’s concealing something. The statement could have been innocent, but it hadn’t sounded that way.

My dubious brother continues to stare at Juniper. Meanwhile, the remainder of our band considers the landscape, with its infinite vista of cliffs and the fringed woodland below.

Long ago, Cypress and the centaurs of The Solitary Forest had made an eternal oath to the last surviving scribe who’d penned the Book of Fables. The centaurs had vowed to keep the tome safe, to be its keepers. According to Juniper and Puck, it hadn’t been easy for Cypress to approve of this venture.

However, for the sake of our realm and its fauna, the centaur and his kin had concurred. Juniper’s logic, combined with Puck’s sovereignty and devotion, had persuaded them.

While discussing this at The Fauna Tower, Juniper had stressed we wouldn’t offer the entire book. We need only to offer the page containing the Fable itself. That will be sufficient.

Except one vital concern remains. It may only be a single page, and Juniper may be able to recite the text by heart, but that doesn’t atone for the loss. She has proven there are other ways to find hints within the parchment—texture and lettering style, for instance. We’ll be forfeiting our access to that.

An offering for an offering. It’s a cruel bargain and indisputably Fae. But for survival and to avoid war, loses are inevitable.

To that end, Cove and Elixir had endeavored to find clues by visiting The Grotto That Whispers. Located in his domain, the age-old pool chronicles the history of this wild. Yet nothing new had come of it. Our band has been searching for answers and reaping none.

And at the rate Scorpio and our enemies are going, we must move swifter if we wish to avoid carnage.

This is our last resort.

I stride forward and offer Juniper my arm. She inspects the crooked elbow with uncertainty, then glances at Puck, who nods with encouragement. It rinses away the apprehension and replaces it with conviction. She places her crossbow on the grass, tucks the book to her side, and loops her free arm through mine.

I guide her to the rim, bend toward her ear, and whisper, “Call them.”

Before I can elaborate, she asks, “How?”

“With your voice or your mind. Either will do. Trust me, they’ll answer.”

Her profile creases. It’s the not concrete sort of instruction she prefers. Nonetheless, she straightens her clothing, tamping down the wrinkles. “Er…Horizon, we’d like a word. Show yourself.”

At first, the air goes still, the quiet so expansive I barely hear the flapping of my father’s wings in the welkin. Then the atmosphere oscillates. It funnels in several places, as if stirred by spoons, before slowing.

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