An Artificial Night
Page 92

The bushes rustled behind me, and I turned to see Acacia walking toward me. The branches bent away from her as she walked, avoiding the hem of her gray silk gown, and her short-cropped hair was curled into a nest of tiny knots that rearranged themselves as I watched. She wasn’t wearing her cloak. I stared at her, openmouthed, as I realized what she’d been hiding. I’d never seen her without that cloak; she’d changed gowns, but the covering had always remained the same. I could finally see why.
Acacia had opened her wings. They were broad moth’s wings, pale green with golden “eyes” at their tops. The edges were tattered from their long confinement, but they’d heal; anything that could last as long as she had would need to be resilient. And they were beautiful.
“You have wings,” I said, amazed.
“I do,” she said, still smiling.
“But why did you hide them?”
“Because if Michael forgot them, he wouldn’t take them like he took everything else.” She tilted her face upward, closing her eyes. “I can feel the stars. Even with my eyes closed, I can feel the stars.”
“Is he . . . ?” I couldn’t think of a polite way to ask if I’d killed her husband, so I stopped.
“Dead? Yes, you killed him.” She smiled, eyes still closed. “He’s as dead as dead can be. No more midnight rides or stolen children, no more blood on his hands—or on mine.”
“Bloody hands.” I looked down at my own hands, almost afraid of what I’d see. Dried blood was caked under my nails and in the creases of my knuckles, but the cuts were gone. My skin was whole. “I’m not bleeding.”
“You paid the toll.”
I started to stand, stopping and wincing as I tried to put weight on my left arm. Looking more closely, I saw that my jacket and sweater were slashed open all the way to the elbow; the cut beneath was long and raw. “Not entirely.”
“My husband gave you that. It wasn’t part of your fee.” She lowered her head, opening her eyes. “Consider it a part of your reward.”
“What happens now? Are you free?”
“What does free mean, I wonder?” Acacia shook her head. “I won’t leave these lands, if that’s what you mean; they’ve been my home too long. I don’t know the world you come from. It would be no home for me.”
“Luna’s there.”
“I know. I’ll visit—I can do that, now. I can visit all my children.” This time her smile was sweet and wistful. “I’ve missed them. Luna especially.”
“I think she’s missed you, too.”
“She was always a good girl. She tried to stay. But she was dying here.”
I looked at her thoughtfully. There were traces of green in the mingled gold and brown of her hair. I was willing to bet that as the forest restored itself, Acacia would bloom. “She wasn’t the only one.”
“No; she wasn’t.” She sighed. “He wasn’t always like that. I won’t defend what he did or what he became, but there was a time when he was . . .”
“Sane?” I suggested.
Acacia looked at me, expression grave. “Are the fae ever sane? We live in a world that isn’t there half the time. We claim that windmills are giants, and because we say it, it’s true. Our lives become myth and legend, until even we can’t tell what we truly are from what we’re told we ought to be. How can we live that way and be considered sane? My lord was never sane, but he was my love once. He always will be, somewhere. Wherever it is that the once upon a times go when they die.”
I nodded and rose, this time careful not to put any real weight on my left arm. Once I was up I leaned against the nearest tree, taking a slow inventory. My entire body was covered in blood, but the cut on my arm was the only lingering injury. All the other wounds were made by magic and seemed to have faded the same way.
I looked up to see Acacia watching me. “I think you’ll live,” she said.
“So do I,” I replied. “I should probably—”
“Yes, you should.” She gestured toward the ground. Sylvester’s sword was there, properly sheathed; so were the knives I’d used to kill Blind Michael. “I’ve readied your things, and I’m sure there are people who need to know you’ve survived. I would have wagered on your death. I’m sure they’ve done the same.”
Impulsively, I reached for her hands. “Come with me.”
“I can’t,” she said, and smiled. “I have to stay here. The children need me.”
Oak and ash, the Riders. “Will they—are they going to be all right?”
“No,” she said, simply. “They’re going to be Riders, and they’ll be here forever. But they’ll be better than they were. These are my lands now. The Rides are over, and we’ll live another way. I don’t know how. But we’ll do it.”
“Alone?”
“If we have to.” She let go of my hands. “You’ve given us what we needed, October; you’ve given us our freedom. Now go home and give your family the same gift.”
I bent to collect my weapons, pausing before picking up the second knife. I’d killed with it—it was mine now. In the end, I slid both knives into my belt, slinging the sword over my shoulder. “How do I get home?”
“Come here.”
Her smile was warm and welcoming. I stepped forward, stopping barely a foot away.
“Trust me, and close your eyes,” she said. I did as I was told, and felt her kiss first my eyelids, then my lips. “Good-bye, Toby.”
A breeze rose around me and the smell of the air changed, shifting from forest loam to flowers. I opened my eyes, unsurprised to find myself in the Garden of Glass Roses. The light through the windows indicated that it was past noon, although the light in Shadowed Hills can lie. Crystal butterflies flitted from place to place, unconcerned by the sudden appearance of a changeling in their midst. I could tend myself; it was their job to tend the flowers.
“Good-bye, Acacia,” I said, and started for the exit. I needed to find Sylvester and the others, and let them know that I was all right. If I was going to be a hero, it was my job to make sure every part of my family was protected, including their hearts.
Damn it, when did I become the hero?
I stepped out into the empty hall, wincing at the sound of my heels on the marble floor. Sliding Sylvester’s sword down from my shoulder and clutching it to my chest, I started walking.