Page 7 of The Iron Raven

A group of four redcaps—think evil gnomes with jagged shark teeth and a hat drenched in the blood of their victims—surrounded a figure a few paces from the wagon steps. The figure’s back was to us, so I couldn’t see its face, and a hooded gray cloak hid the rest of its body, but each of its hands, slightly raised from its sides, gripped a curved, shining blade. My eyes were drawn to those blades. They glowed silver-white in the darkness and didn’t appear quite solid, as if the figure was brandishing two razor-thin shafts of moonlight.

Whatever they were made of, they were definitely sharp enough to do the job. A pair of redcaps lay writhing in the dust at the stranger’s feet, blood streaming from identical hair-thin gashes across their throats. As I watched, the bodies rippled, then dissolved into piles of squirming slugs and worms as the bloodthirsty faeries died in the manner of all fey and simply ceased to exist.

The rest of the motley snarled, baring their fangs, but seemed reluctant to fling themselves on the stranger’s blades of light. Around them, the crowd roared, perched on the edge of devolving into utter pandemonium.

“Enough!”

I jumped as the booming voice rang in my ear and shook the struts of the carousel. Startled, I paused, and Keirran strode past me toward the mob, power snapping around him like a cloak. Overhead, lightning flickered, and ice spread out from his boots as he walked, coating the ground with tiny crystal daggers.

Eyes wide with fear and recognition, the throng cringed away from the Forgotten King as he stopped in the center of the circle. The redcaps hissed and scuttled back into the crowd, and the rest of the mob shuffled nervously, averting their gazes. Keirran might be the newest ruler of Faery, a mere child to most, but he possessed a special talent that none in the Nevernever could boast: the ability to wield all three glamours, Summer, Winter, and Iron.

“What is the meaning of this?” Keirran’s voice was back to its normal calm, but there was no mistaking the steely edge beneath. “Have you all lost your minds? The goblin market is neutral ground. All fey are welcome here, even those of the Iron Court. Explain yourselves.”

“Forgotten King.” A Winter sidhe, tall and draped in a robe adorned in colored icicles, stepped forward. The icicles jingled like chimes as he raised an arm, pointing a long finger at the cloaked figure. “This creature came into the market and was clearly dangerous,” he accused, his voice high and haughty. “We thought the threat should be eliminated.”

“It attacked every one of you?” Keirran’s voice was just the right mix of skeptical and mocking. “It came to the goblin market with the sole purpose of starting a war? How very ambitious. Perhaps we should ask how it intended to accomplish such a thing.” He shot a glance at the figure standing motionless beside him. “What say you, stranger? This lot accuses you of single-handedly trying to slaughter them all. What is your side of things?”

“Nothing quite so interesting, Your Majesty.” I blinked at the voice. Lilting, confident, and as wryly amused as Keirran. Also, definitely female. “I came to the goblin market searching for someone. Apparently, stopping to ask for directions is a crime worthy of death in this era, though it turned out to be a blessing in disguise. At least I found whom I was looking for.”

She raised her head, gazing directly at the Forgotten King, and Keirran stiffened. Not noticeably; he hid his surprise quite well. But I saw the flash of recognition and shock in his eyes, and my own curiosity flared.

“Well, then.” I stepped from the carousel’s shadow and strode to the middle of the circle, beaming my brightest smile at the crowd of fearful, angry faces. “Obviously this has been a giant misunderstanding,” I said loudly, “one we can all put behind us and forget about. I’m sure that’s what we want, right? I’m sure nobody here wants to explain to the courts why the entire goblin market suddenly exploded in a rain of fire, blood, lightning, and frogs. Why frogs, you ask? Well, that’s what happened the last time the goblin market tried to put an end to a certain Summer jester. Nothing but frogs as far as the eye could see.” I found the gazes of the redcaps and the Winter sidhe. “It was so epic, the humans in the mortal world still talk about it. But I don’t see any reason that it should happen again, right?”

“Robin Goodfellow is here, too?”

I didn’t see the speaker, but at least half the crowd cringed back even farther. The Winter sidhe with the tinkling coat shot me a glare of absolute loathing, but I saw fear on that pale, haughty face as well. The redcap motley peeking out of the crowd cast furious gazes between me and the cloaked stranger, but this mob was done. No faery in their right mind would pick a fight with the Forgotten KingandRobin Goodfellow, and after a tense silence, the Winter sidhe gathered up his robe and stalked off in a huff, cheerful jingles following his exit. The rest of the throng dissipated quickly, with only Marla giving me a pinched, disappointed look, before she, too, vanished into the market, leaving Keirran and me alone with the stranger.

“Well, that was fun.” I laced my hands behind my head and grinned at Keirran. “Nothing screams ‘exciting evening’ like cowing a bloodthirsty mob and sending them scurrying back into the dark. Though you went right to the fire-and-light show there, princeling. I could’ve handled it in a less...direct manner, you know.”

“A rain of frogs is not subtle, Puck,” Keirran replied, but he wasn’t looking at me. His attention was riveted to the stranger, who had dropped to a knee before him and bowed its cowled head. “Nyx,” Keirran said matter-of-factly. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, Your Majesty,” came the reply from under the cloak. “My apologies for causing such a disturbance. I forgot the fey of this era have not seen my kind before. Apparently, I startled the faery with the blood-soaked hat, and it acted on instinct. I did not mean to draw blood in the market.”

Keirran frowned. “No one should have faulted you for defending yourself. And I told you before, you don’t have to bow to me every time we meet. Get up.”

Gracefully, the figure rose and brushed back the hood, and the comment about Keirran and proper fey protocol died on my lips.

I’m a pretty old faery, and don’t take that the wrong way—it’s not like I’m some toothless hunchback in a rocking chair waving a cane and shouting, “Git off my lawn!” at neighborhood hooligans. What I mean is, I’ve been around awhile. When humans feared the dark and the things lurking in it, I was one of those things they feared. I have ballads and poems written about me. I made some writer dude named Shakespeare famous. Or maybe that was the other way around. The point is, I’m no spring chicken, and I’ve seen a lot. I’ve battled creatures from storybooks and had tea with legends. I know my faeries, myths, and monsters.

I had never seen this type of fey before.

She was sidhe, I could tell that much. Commonly referred to as high elves in more modern speak—thanks, Tolkien. Generally, there were two types of sidhe: the Seelie of the Summer Court, and the Unseelie hailing from Winter. Over the centuries, a few splinter branches had cropped up: dark elves lived underground, hated the sunlight, and had an unnatural obsession with spiders; wood elves kept to the forests and were of a more primal nature; and there were a couple clans of snow elves that rarely came down from their icy mountain peaks. But with a few differences in clothing and mannerisms, whether they would make you dance until you died from exhaustion or just stab you in the face, most sidhe were the same: slender, beautiful, otherworldly, and pointy-eared.

This faery was all of those, right down to the knifelike pointed ears, but she was still something I had never seen before. And that made her the most intriguing faery I had met in centuries.

She was shorter than most sidhe; I had several inches on her, and I’m not exactly tall. Her skin had a bluish-gray tint to it, not ghastly or corpselike but almost translucent, and tiny, star-shaped markings hovered under her eyes and spread across her nose like silver freckles. Beneath the cloak, she was clad in what looked like black leather armor, formfitting and leaving little to the imagination. Though I didn’t see any scabbards for the pair of glowing blades she had wielded; they seemed to have dissolved into thin air. Her long hair was silver-white, even brighter than Keirran’s, and cast a faint halo of light around her head. When she looked at me, I expected her eyes to be pale blue or black, or even silvery white with no pupils. But they were a luminous gold, like two glowing moons, and, looking into them, I felt my stomach drop.

She was...old. Older than me. Maybe older than the courts. She didn’tlookold, of course; her face had an almost childlike innocence that was quite jarring as she stared at me with the gaze of an ancient dragon. Age meant nothing to us, some of the oldest fey I knew looked and sounded like they were twelve, but...holy crap. Who was this faery, and where had Keirran found her?

The stunned amazement must’ve shown on my face when I glanced at him, for he offered a grim smile. “Puck,” he began, indicating the faery before him, “this is Nyx. She’s a Forgotten. I met her when I was first investigating the incidents in the Between. She comes from a place called Phaed.”

“Phaed?” I blinked in shock. I’d heard that name before, remembered it from an adventure with a certain Winter prince. “That creepy town in the Deep Wyld?”

“It’s not entirely in the Deep Wyld,” Nyx said quietly. “Its borders touch the Between, so it drifts in and out of the Nevernever, manifesting itself only briefly.” She cocked her head, giving me an appraising look. “Although, I’m surprised that you’ve seen Phaed. Usually only the Forgotten, or faeries close to death, can find their way to the Town that Isn’t There.”

“Ah, well.” I grinned at her. “You know me. The impossible has a nasty habit of landing right in my lap. Same goes with any type of curse, disaster, bad luck, or calamity. I’m a trouble magnet—one of the perks of being me.”

“I see.” Nyx gave me that cocked-head, scrutinizing look again. “And you are?”

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