whole. It would be a long, dangerous climb in the middle of the night.
Bran fought his fear. It would do him no good.
With the camp long at his back and letting the whisper of the Paladr guide him, Bran followed a small deer trail and climbed over the boulder-strewn mountain, in search of answers he had to have.
The seed in his hand burned the entire time.
The Snowdon reared above, a massive presence; the Nharth swirled around him, faces lost in the mist. Even though the darkness of night hid most of the world, Bran had no trouble making his way; some aspect of the Paladr guided him, outlined the world in shades of gray as if it knew the land and every obstacle, bend in the path, and low-hanging tree branch. It called him onward, through a forest grown wild with pine and fir, the power of the witch oddly absent, and the heady odor of healthy life blending with the mineral tang of trickling water all around him.
Bran breathed in the cool night air. It would have been oddly relaxing, if not for the circumstances.
He was a long way from home, from the life he had once led. Speaking to Richard and hearing how the knight had fallen to such dark depths did nothing to dissuade Bran from his choice. He wanted to make something of his life. The death of Connal had been the final straw breaking his burdened back.
He would die before becoming a man he despised.
“Where you think you are going, treesqueak?”
A whir of wings flew passed and Snedeker hovered in the air before Bran.
“To find my own way in this world.”
“The woods at night can be quite dangerous, outworlder,” the fairy said, looking darkly about him as if another bodach would appear at any moment. “You should not be here alone. You are lucky I found you.”
“Fly back to camp,” Bran ordered, mostly annoyed.
“You command me not, hotpie,” Snedeker said, crossing his arms, the wood of his face stubborn. “I am more than a hundred years older than you. You would do well to listen to me. Do very well.”
“Have it your way then,” Bran said, moving a branch aside. “I can’t stop you.”
“Where are we going?”
“Now it’s we?”
“Yes, we,” Snedeker said.
“You are good at getting yourself into trouble, aren’t you?”
The fairy appraised Bran indignantly. Bran stared hard back at the creature and realized he didn’t know much about Snedeker other than the thievery he had attempted in the Cadarn.
“Did Deirdre send you after me?” Bran asked.
“Red doesn’t control me either,” Snedeker snorted. “Those who think they can quickly find I am less than agreeable.”
“I was told fairies were not to be trusted.”
“You keep poor company then.”
“How did you become friends with Deirdre?” Bran asked, truly curious.
“I wooed a woman.”
“Deirdre?”
Snedeker laughed, the twigs and moss of his body shaking. “You know nothing of fairies, do you, outworlder?”
“Of course I don’t! Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked.”
“Settle down, meatsack. I will answer your question,” Snedeker said, flying alongside Bran’s head and peering into the forward darkness. “I am a fairy of the Oakwells, the most respected fairy clan in the eyes of the Lady. The summer is long and hot and has been burning for centuries. Food grows short at times. The Firewillows live closer than my clan to Rhuddlan Teivi where many humans live. I borrowed one of their maids—only one—who supplied their clan with milk, oh…two decades back, when Red was a young girl.”
“You borrowed a maid?”
Snedeker flew in front of Bran only to turn with scolding face.
“Yes. Borrowed.”
“What happened then? The humans come after you?”
“No, the Firewillows did,” Snedeker sputtered. “Even though they had plenty of milk, they would not share. Flaming slugs. They think they are the Lady’s favorites. Think they were there at the beginning of the Misty Isles, as her beloveds. The Oakwells know the truth!”
“Sounds like you hate the Firewillows a lot,” Bran said.
“They are sworn enemies,” Snedeker said. “As are the other clans.”
“So you left and ended up in Mochdrev Reach.”
“To bring my light and intelligence to Red’s life,” the fairy said snarkily.
The trail leveled off where a thick forest pushed its way toward the cliff Bran had just climbed above. Massive fir trees with trunks as big around as an elephant thrust into the cool night air, reminding Bran of black and white pictures of the Pacific Northwest’s Old Growth taken by early loggers in Seattle. No sound met his arrival; the forest slept with depthless surety. All