King of the Woodlands

Chapter 10

Lilibeth knelt in that cell for what might've been hours, clutching her skirts. She fought against tears and lost; they puddled in her eyes and fell in great drops.

Mother appeared in front of her, nothing more than a starry figure, a ghost. She brought harvest apple tea to Lilibeth's lips and made the world smell of almond flowers and sea-salted lavender. "Strength, my girl," she whispered.

The cell door swung open and Mother's ghost disappeared like a will-o'-the-wisp, taking the empty teacup with her. Lilibeth schooled her face into bland innocence, thanking her superfluous acting skills.

It wasn't the Woodland King, thank the skies and gods. It was another one of those strange servant faeries, with skin the color of fresh snow but with eyes so dark Lilibeth felt as if she were looking into an endless expanse of midnight sky. He looked like a wooden puppet with his round, honey-colored cheeks and light sprinkle of freckles.

"You'll be dining with His Majesty," the faerie said. He sounded like an ordinary little boy. "Come with me."

Not daring to take her eyes off him, Lilibeth stood on shaking stick legs. "Who in the name of the skies and gods are you? I hope you don't speak in riddle like everyone else."

"My name's Albion."

"White cliffs," Lilibeth said proudly.

"Look," he said, sighing. "It's not right for you to be locked up in here. You're not an animal."

"Your king certainly thinks I am." She did not appreciate being caged like a cardinal when she was meant to roam free.

Albion shook his head. "Like I said, it isn't right. But before we go out there, I need to give you a warning. I can't just let you stumble around blindly. The Woodland King knows things. Knows things he shouldn't. He has eyes everywhere. So don't try to escape or anything."

Lilibeth nodded.

"How are you feeling?" Albion asked. She was surprised he even cared. But then again, he looked like a child, a little boy. Maybe children were harder to sculpt into black-hearted monsters.

"I'm feeling a bit faint," she said. "But I can't be blamed for wanting food."

"That brings me to my next point. Here, in this faraway part of Llewellenar, not everything you eat is what it seems to be. We may borrow milk and eggs and honey from the few animals that live here, but there is something lurking beneath." He stumbled back. "I've told you too much."

"I'm sorry," she said. He'd only shown her kindness, and she was prying too much. She reached out a hand to steady him, but he'd already righted himself.

"At least be lucky you're not a slave in the Black Islands," he said. "They brokered a slave trade long ago."

"How awful!" Lilibeth gasped. "Oh, I can't imagine how—" she shuddered. "I can't breathe, can I?" Of course she could breathe, but she decided that in that moment of horror, she was going to be a bit dramatic.

The Black Islands were named for the ebony sands at their shores, and Lilibeth had always wanted to visit. Now, she wasn't so sure. They bought and sold humans like they were chipped porridge bowls, which was never acceptable in her book.

Albion motioned with a hand for her to follow him. "Come with me," he repeated. "He'll be angry if you're late."

She followed him into the darkness, that absolute darkness, the pure lack of light. She hated the dark; in fact she was rather scared of it, so she slept with a lit oil lamp back home.