Page 21 of A City of Emeralds and Envy
Riordan hesitates, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost regretful. “In the fields where the crows hold sway, there is an ancient well—the Well of Undoing. Its waters remove a Fae’s powers temporarily, and wounds created while under the water’s influence heal slowly, if at all. The villagers occasionally fetch a little of the water, at great risk, for use in their ritual tattoos, and every sacrifice is dosed with the water, to sap their strength and prevent them from healing while the crows devour them.”
“And you’ve seen the villagers do this before?” I dart in front and plant both hands on his chest to stop him. “You’ve watched them tie someone up in the field? Right now, you’re allowing an innocent person to be eaten alive so we can get safely to the woods?”
“I would do far more despicable things to ensure your safety,” he says coolly.
“You—you—” I’m swelling with disbelief, with rage. I can barely speak. I bang on his metal chest with my fist. “You’re absolutelyheartless, you know that?”
“Keep walking, Alice.”
“No! You’re going to show me where they put up this scarecrow. I assume you know where they usually do it?”
“Yes, but—”
“We’re going to find him and free him. Show us where he is, Riordan. Now.”
“Must we, though?” says Dorothy in a bored tone. “We don’t know him. What does it matter if he dies, as long as we don’t have to watch it?”
I grit my teeth, and my fingers curl into fists. “You two are so—Unseelie.”
“Is that a compliment?” Dorothy smiles, not the gentle, placid smile I’ve seen from her back home. This smile has wicked edges.
“Riordan, please.” I turn my attention back to him. “You know this is wrong.”
“He is a sacrifice for the greater good. Not much different than the humans I’ve offered up to the cause of magical research over the years.” He’s walking again, his chestplate pressing against my palms. He’s moving me backward along the road by sheer brute strength.
“Fuck you,” I spit, and I dodge out of his way, off the road and into the cornfield.
“Stop, Alice!” His voice booms inside the helmet, but I’m running along a row, ducking between stalks, then racing down the next row, quickly and quietly as I can. I don’t see any crows. If I hurry, I can find the sacrifice before he’s torn to pieces.
I’m no stranger to fields like this, to the sharp edges of the crooked leaves, to the papery rasp of the breeze slithering through the stalks, to the sticky silks trailing in bunches from swelling cobs of corn, sheathed in green. My father would give his right arm for a field like this—a field fat with the promise of a rich harvest.
Of course he wouldn’t care for the feathered fiends that haunt this place. There’s one on the ground, and my heart jumps at the sight, but I think it’s dead. It’s lying on its back, wings outspread and tail splayed, its claws curled and its beak open.
It doesn’t move as I tiptoe cautiously past.
The farther I run into the field, the more thickly the ground is littered with dead crows. Perhaps we’ve been lucky—maybe they were tethered to the East Witch somehow, and they died when we crushed her under the barn. Maybe some curse of the West Witch or the Green Wizard took them down.
I walk more confidently, but I still avoid stepping on the motionless birds. I can’t hear any sounds of pursuit. If Riordan and Dorothy are following me, they’re moving just as quietly as I am—which, in Riordan’s case, would be difficult.
As my fear ebbs, I begin to realize that I could hunt through this field for days and never find the Scarecrow they put out here. I need to locate some higher ground—any swell of earth that will give me a vantage point.
Pausing to scope out the crow-littered earth between the stalks, I notice a slight upward slant in one direction. So I head that way, and sure enough, the ground continues to slope up until it rises sharply, forming a hill clad only in yellow grass, dotted with a few scarlet flowers.
I part the last of the cornstalks and look up, squinting slightly against the brilliant blue of the sky. The sun has risen, and its new light floods the scene, illuminating the grass—gleaming on the golden hair of a figure tied to a wooden stake at the peak of the hill.
The young Fae male has been stripped to the waist, left with only a pair of ragged blue trousers. His bare feet are tied to the pole by the ankles, and more ropes circle his thighs. His arms are pulled back behind him, securely fastened to the crossbeam of the post. His ribs have been tattooed with stalks of grain, and across his chest is the tattooed shape of a crow spreading its wings—one feathered, one plucked to the bone. The male’s left shoulder and upper arm bear another tattoo—a hideous scarecrow made of branches.
The sun shines through a straw hat that was probably on his head but now hangs at his back, held by its leather string, a mocking nod to the role he’s supposed to fill—a living scarecrow.
He isn’t handsome like Riordan, or wickedly beautiful like Caer—but he’s so fucking pretty. Delicate features, soft lips, sorrowful blue eyes. His sharp ears poke through a tumble of curls as golden as ripe grain.
He’s looking down at me, and he doesn’t look surprised, or hopeful, or even angry. But the sadness in his eyes breaks my heart. He’s been abandoned here, his body given up to the appetites of savage creatures, and I know how he feels because I’ve been there, too.
“Go, before they notice you.” His voice is gentle, musical, a lullaby meant to keep wicked things from waking.
He didn’t ask me to free him. He doesn’t even know me, but his first thought was for my safety.
“Couldn’t you break free?” I reply, in a voice as quiet as his.
