around him the Nharth departed without provocation. The smell of dried needles and sap warmed sweet by the heat of day embraced Bran as he took the first few steps along the flat path, his way forward lost to the trees after several dozen feet.
In his hand, the Paladr goaded him gently to continue moving.
“Well, why did you attack that bodach?” Bran asked. “It seems a bit out of character from what you’ve told me so far.”
“Shhhh!” the fairy whispered.
As the two passed the outer fringe of a lea, Snedeker stopped Bran with a silent warning gesture and pointed through the foliage. In the middle of the moonlit meadow and glowing like incandescent silver strolled a tall white doe, her neck long and elegant, her legs taut with nervous chiseled muscle. No impurity marring its beauty, the deer radiated innocence, the most beautiful animal Bran had ever seen.
But the fairy did not point at the doe.
From the far side of the lea, a tall shadow unnatural to the growth around it stood in the darkness, a statue in the midnight of the Snowdon. Unexpected thick bile rose up Bran’s throat, and he wanted to vomit. Fighting the sick feeling that washed over him, the black outline of the entity solidified into a thin, tall man sitting upon a massive horse the color of damp ashes. The rider made no sound or movement. Branches grew out of the shadow’s head until Bran realized they were multi-pointed horns bleached of color and very sharp. Every second that passed, the sense of wrongness about the creature and its mount intensified, forcing Bran to barely breathe, barely move, barely think.
The reality of what bothered Bran about the apparition struck him like lightning. It was not a man straddling a horse.
It was a centaur, like the woman Aife.
But unlike the Horsemaster of the Seelie Court, sick power radiated from the horned fey across the meadow, the venom of the being infiltrating Bran. Trembling involuntarily, it was all Bran could do to not become ill.
“Cernunnos,” Snedeker whispered from Bran’s shoulder.
“Who?” he hissed.
“The Erlking of the Unseelie Court,” the fairy whimpered.
The centaur watched the doe graze the dewy grass, his eyes burning red like coals heated by bellows. The white deer seemed oblivious to what watched it, demurely feeding from the lea at its feet, its tiny tail flicking occasionally. A part of Bran wished to slink away—the nearby evil repellent to his heart—but he knelt, rooted in place, worry for the safety of the beautiful animal overcoming the instincts pounding in his blood to flee for his life.
With an achingly slow movement, Cernunnos pulled free a black bow as tall as a man; his other hand drew forth a feathered obsidian arrow. The head of the bolt flickered putrid green as he knocked it against the string. The Erlking of the Unseelie Court drew back the doe’s death with a steady hand, fixing one baleful eye along the arrow.
“No!” Bran shouted without heed.
The glowing doe leapt ten feet in the air just as Cernunnos let go the string. The arrow shot like a bullet but harmlessly into the ground where the deer had been a moment before. The doe hit the lea bounding away, a blur of silver arcing through the night.
In less than two seconds she was gone.
The Erlking of the Unseelie Court, looking where the doe had vanished, strode slowly into the meadow beneath the moonlight, the horse chest rippling powerfully. He was taller than any Rhedewyr Bran had seen. Lank black hair fell over toned chest and arms, power radiating from him. The flaming eyes set within a narrow angular face never deviated from Bran. The dark weight of eons hung about the Erlking. At his feet a black stain of creatures skulked—tusked boars, slinking weasels, and other beasts of the night, all bearing red feral eyes that burned at Bran like the Erlking’s own.
Snedeker shrank back, tugging on Bran’s shirt, frightened.
It was all Bran could do to not to run.
—Human—
The scratching sound of the fey’s voice hung like an anvil upon the night air.
—Do not fear me—
Bran hesitated but remained crouched low, illness permeating the air.
—Come to me, lad—
The repulsive sickness left Bran; in its place was a desire to stand and touch the being in the meadow. He stood, suddenly unafraid, aroused by something he could not define. The heart in his chest quickened; the blood in his veins raced. The smell of his own sweat and rotting oak leaves filled