Page 107 of Realm of Nightmares
The Wild Huntsman stepped back, allowing her entry.
She faltered. “That’s it?”
Surely there had to be a catch, some trick or bargain to be made.
But the Wild Huntsman simply gestured for her to enter. “You asked, didn’t you?”
Maeve took a cautious step forward and entered the imposing castle.
The interior hall was not at all what she was expecting and unlike anything she had ever seen. Faintly lit with torches of faerie fire, the walls of the corridor were painted, depicting images of a time from before. Murals covered every surface, most of them showcasing great battles and strife. Others portrayed a world of lush seasons and devastating beauty. There were warriors and wielders of magic, handsome kings, and striking queens. It was as though every image, every scene, told a story passed down through generations, legends and lore from the beginning of the old fae.
Other halls broke off from the main one as she ventured deeper into the castle in the mountain, each one darker and longer than the last. She followed the Wild Huntsman’s lead while the click of her boots against the gleaming stone floor echoed up into the curved ceiling overhead.
“Is there a library here?” Maeve asked, distracted by a painting of what looked to be a weathered book with split bindings, the words in a language she couldn’t understand.
Up ahead, the Wild Huntsman chuckled. “No.”
Sun and sky. If there was no library, then how was she expected to find the book Laurel requested? It had to be here somewhere. She could only hope the Lord of the Hunt would give it to her without seeking a favor in return.
Her guide stopped before another set of doors, except these were not made of wood but frosted glass. Etched into the silvery panes was the same insignia as before, double crossed swords, a skull, and fiery gemstone eyes. The doors swept open, softer than a ribbon of silk on the breeze.
Inside was a grand hall illuminated by candelabras, casting the space in a warm, welcoming glow despite Diamarvh’s otherwise cold exterior. The ceiling was reminiscent of the night sky. Resplendent starlight flickered between passing clouds of deep navy, the moon shining like a beacon in an oasis of midnight. It was positively captivating.
“Hello, Dawnbringer.” A rough, masculine voice stole her attention from the intriguing night sky back down to the grand hall. Long tables were filled with dozens of huntsmen, and every pair of eyes was on her.
Maeve steeled her spine and faced the Lord of the Hunt. “You know who I am?”
“How could I not?” He rose to greet her, stepping off his throne of veined obsidian.
Much like the Wild Huntsman who escorted her, the Lord of the Hunt also looked caught somewhere between the land of the living and that of the dead. Except his eyes were bright. Keen, even. He sported a neatly trimmed beard of jet black, though his hair was tousled, as though he cared less about what was on his head as opposed to his face. Decked in full armor, he strode toward her, and it was then she realized the distinctive difference between the rest of the huntsman and the Lord of the Hunt.
While they look to have aged, the Lord of the Hunt still seemed in possession of his youth. As though his life had been stolen away much too soon.
He paused, stopping directly in front of her, forcing her to look up. The corner of his mouth lifted in a slight grin. “Your aura is that of a thousand sunbeams. I’d be a fool to mistake you for anyone else.”
“Hurts the eyes a bit,” another huntsman commented, and the rumble of laughter resounded through the hall.
Maeve bristled.
The Lord of the Hunt placed his hands behind his back. Inclining his head, eyes filled with speculation, he walked in a painfully slow circle around her. “What brings you to Diamarvh?”
She steadied herself, took a calculating breath. This was why she was here, this was her moment. She could not fail. “I’ve come to ask for your assistance.”
A moment later he was in front of her again, his gaze focused on her left wrist where the leather ripped a little, revealing the mark on her skin.
“Witch thread,” he murmured.
“Excuse me?” Maeve clasped her right hand over her wrist, concealing it from his view.
“The mark on your wrist. The mountains and the starburst.” He smoothed his beard, his brows drawing together. “You see how the ink shimmers? Almost iridescent? It’s the sign of witch thread.”
“I don’t know what that means.” She’d never heard of such a thing.
His movements were slow. Disciplined. He reached out to her, gently capturing her wrist. He raised her arm slightly, then turned her hand over, palm up. With one finger, he tapped the design on her flesh. “Witch thread ties your soul to another by magic. It allows you to track them, to sense when they’re in peril, to feel their emotions. To speak to them, if you so choose. Which may or may not be a good thing. But this particular type of magic is uncommon, the likes of which haven’t been seen in many years.”
The Lord of the Hunt’s eyes locked onto her, burning like molten gold. “You haven’t had any dealings with the witches of Fenmire, have you?”
“No. Never.” She couldn’t recollect reading about any witches of Fenmire in her studies, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist. “It simply appeared one day.”
