Journey

"Wake up."

I moan, shifting around, and stickily unglue my eyelids. For a moment, I can't understand why everything's so unfamiliar, and why I feel so afraid and miserable. Then I remember last night, and start awake, heart pounding, untangling myself from Birch.

On their cots, the children groan sleepily. Judging from the faint gray glow filtering in through the tent, it's some unspeakable hour of the morning. Madoc's standing over us like an escaped nightmare, already dressed for the day. He takes in me and Birch on the cot, and raises an eyebrow.

"Are you two married?" he asks with a level curiosity.

"No." Birch avoids Madoc's gaze as he disentangles himself from around me. Last night, he held me until I'd cried myself out before laying me down on the cot. He tried to move away then, to sleep on the floor, but I clung to him, unthinking, just desperate for him to stay. So he lay on the cot with me, holding me while I lay rigid, wracked by convulsive shivers, until I finally fell into a shallow, feverish sleep. I don't know if he slept at all.

"Lovers, then?"

"We're just friends." Still Birch avoids Madoc's eyes, and mine too, however I try to catch his gaze. "Come on, kids, time to get up."

Dogwood groans, barely shifting on his cot. "I can't," he whines. "I'm still tired."

"Get up and come to breakfast," Madoc orders. "We're leaving in an hour." He turns away, pulling the screen behind him. I glare after him a moment before trying to rouse Philomel.

She gets up reluctantly, red-eyed with exhaustion, her hair tangled. "I want to go home," she moans, clutching Lulu. She blinks her beautiful purple-and-silver eyes, and I remember what Madoc said last night, about her having Balekin's mother's eyes. But they just look like Philomel's eyes to me, even now: lovely and innocent and cross. It's still my daughter in there. I ease a little.

Me too, sweetie. I look around for a brush of some kind.

There's a small chest at the end of my cot. I scoot over and open it, and reel back under a sudden assault of the past. These are my clothes in the chest: my old clothes, from before I left Court. Of course: Madoc brought my old things with him. I push aside the mixture of rage and odd gratitude this thought arouses in me and root around. It's mostly filled with my old riding clothes, but I find my old silver brush. I handle it reluctantly—it brings back too many memories—but it does work on Philomel's hair.

"Any clothes for the kids in there?" Birch comes over to look.

"Yes," calls Madoc from beyond the screen. "I had a local hob run up some things for the children as soon as I learned about them. They're packed in with Taryn's things."

Philomel pauses. "That horrible old redcap's still there?" she demands, far too loudly.

Out beyond the screen, we hear the horrible old redcap in question pause in his movements momentarily.

Hastily, I hush Philomel, holding a finger to her lips. Yes, he's there. He's not going to leave us alone until we reach Court. Drawing Dogwood close, I lean in and sign conspiratorially. While he's around, let's speak only sign language, all right? That way, he won't be able to understand us.

Dogwood grins. We can say what we want! he signs, eyes shining.

Horrible, nasty old man! Philomel turns to stick her tongue out at the closed screen, and Madoc behind it. Dogwood does the same, raising his tiny crest, and giggles.

Yes, but still, be careful. Don't give him any reason to punish us. I cast an anxious, pleading look at Birch, who still hasn't met my gaze. You too.

He sighs, but nods. All right. His mouth tightens. Though I can't promise anything when it comes to Balekin. His crest rises, flashing red tips and blue spots.

"Who is that guy, anyway?" Dogwood asks, forgetting to sign.

I hush him. Sign language, remember! Birch widens his eyes, holding a claw over his lips.

They giggle, mirroring him. I get them into their new clothes, which are plain and serviceable and—I can tell already—enchanted to adjust to their fit as they wear them. Useful, I suppose. I go through the chest: Madoc had six sets of clothes, boy's and girl's, sewn up for my children. Mostly they're plain traveling clothes, but there's a beautiful little purple dress, sewn with silver, and a boy's formal suit in red velvet. They confuse me for a moment—why does he think the kids will need nice clothes during this trip?—before I spot a familiar-looking embroidered sleeve.

I shove aside clothing to dig up one of my old Court dresses, like an evil ghost. Just the one, though. Of course: we won't need fancy clothes on the journey, but we will need them to make a proper entry back to the High Court. General Madoc's family can't return to Court as paupers. My fists clench in the fabric.

What's that, Mommy? Dogwood asks, leaning over my shoulder.

Hastily, I shove the Court clothes back down. Nothing. Anger is a steady burn in my stomach. Ah, Madoc, you don't change. Always planning ahead, even when it comes to kidnap. Always paying attention to the appearances, even with a helpless woman and a pair of reluctant, terrified children you think are all your rightful property.

I glare at the mess of clothes in the chest. If I had my way, I wouldn't touch any of them. But I can't keep wearing my nightgown over my pants. Hiding a scowl, I turn away, take off my nightgown, yank a shirt on over my forest pants, and keep my old shoes. If Madoc doesn't like my outfit, he can lump it.

I meet Birch's eyes at last, and nod. He nods back. We take a deep breath and usher the children out.

The main tent is lit by dawn light, flowing in from the open flap. There's a folding table set up, with a chair at one end and lined with benches. It also has breakfast on it, the fragrance making my stomach hurt. I didn't realize how hungry I was.

Madoc's standing by the table. Nearby, the Mirror knight, Saxifrage, stands at the ready, and there's a camp orderly with a pitcher, ready to serve us. My stepfather gestures us to the benches with a sweep of his clawed hand, and we trail forward like we're heading to the scaffold.

We sit down, Birch and I wordlessly sitting on either side of Madoc, insulating the children from him. Dogwood, across the table, clings to Birch nervously, but beside me, Philomel, holding Lulu in her lap, turns to Madoc with a seraphic smile. Hello, you nasty, evil old scut, she signs. I hope that food poisons you.

Dogwood, Birch and I all fight back snorts of laughter, even as Birch and I exchange covert, horrified glances. Madoc, midway through seating himself at the chair, freezes.

Philomel! I scold, even as I bite down a grin. I can't resist a twist of glee, seeing my arrogant, all-powerful stepfather—the great General Madoc of Faerie—kidnapper, murderer and original source of all my troubles—sassed by my six-year-old daughter. Remember what I said about being careful!

But he can't understand us, she protests.

Yes, but he's not stupid. He can tell what you mean, even if he can't understand you.

She scowls. I hate him. She glares under her bangs at him.

Madoc stares back. "I see I'm going to need sign language lessons," he says dryly. He signals his orderly to start pouring drinks. "You can teach me," he says to Birch.

"Why me?" Birch demands sullenly, picking at his food.

"Because you're the only adult here who can both speak and sign," Madoc says, not unreasonably. He eats, teeth tearing into meat. The sight sickens me, and I turn away. Madoc's eyes flick toward me, but he continues to Birch, "You can start tonight. For today, I don't want to see any of you speaking to anyone, about anything, understand?"

"You made that clear last night," says Birch coldly. He eats part of an egg. "How long's it going to take us to get back to this Court of yours, anyway?"

"Just a week, given that we're riding Court-bred horses with travel spells," Madoc shrugs.

Dogwood moans. "A week!"

I'm not sure whether or not I agree with his sentiments. I dread the thought of journeying with Madoc and Balekin, but I dread returning to Court even more.

"Yes, a week," Madoc snaps. "Be grateful it's not two. And you're all to behave yourselves on the journey, or there'll be consequences." His glower seems especially aimed at Philomel, who glowers back.

"You're awful," she says, ignoring my frantic attempts to hush her.

Madoc seems to consider this, tilting his head to one side. "Yes," he says at last, thoughtfully, "I am. But I'm still your grandfather."

"No, you're not," Philomel mutters rebelliously, swatting sullenly at her breakfast. "If you were, you'd be mortal, like Mommy."

"I am your mother's stepfather," he says, drinking from his cup. "I've raised her since she was a child your age."

That's certainly leaving quite a lot out. I glare at him. Great Trees, what did my mother even see in this conniving, murderous, selfish old monster in the first place?

"Really?" Dogwood's frowning now. "Mommy always said she was taken here by a faerie husband who abandoned her in the forest," he says to my rising alarm.

"Did she?" Madoc eyes me, half-annoyed, half-amused. "Well, young man, I'm afraid that's just a story she told you, to keep you both safe and hidden, I daresay."

Philomel and Dogwood both turn to look at me accusingly. I'm sorry, I sign, face burning with shame and cursing Madoc to my soul. I couldn't tell the truth. I didn't want Madoc to find us.

"Oh." Philomel slumps, staring miserably down. I wish it had worked, then.

I squeeze her shoulder. Me too.

Somehow, we get through breakfast. When we're done, and Saxifrage and the orderly are clearing up, taking away the dishes and folding up the furniture, Madoc steps up to me.

"Here," he murmurs, handing me my knife and salt. "Keep them hidden. And don't use them unless it's a true emergency."

Tears sting my eyes at this, but I blink them back angrily. Damned if I'm going to show Madoc any gratitude. I slip on the pouch and knife, pulling the extra fold of shirt over them and wrapping my cloak close. I stand straighter, feeling a little better with my weapons back.

Philomel sidles up, eyes sly. Hey, Mommy, she signs. Salt the redcap! She makes a tiny throwing gesture with Lulu, and she and Dogwood both giggle. Birch smirks a little.

I shake my head, even though I have to smile at the beautiful image of Madoc staggering back, screaming, his eyes burning with poison. Nice thought, Philomel, but that wouldn't be helpful. Come on, get your cloak on. I help the kids on with their cloaks.

Madoc stands by, watching curiously. It occurs to me that he's never seen me being a parent before: never really seen me interact or care for my kids. "Did you truly raise these children all on your own, Taryn?" he asks.

"I helped," Birch says, and I nod in confirmation. "But Albia did most of it, and she's done a good job," he adds proudly. "She was Dogwood's nurse too, you know, before Philomel was born."

Madoc's subordinates draw back a little at this, and Madoc himself winces slightly. "Don't mention that to anyone," he says in a low voice. "Don't tell anyone that my daughter used to work as a servant."

For a moment, all I can do is stare at him. He's kidnapped me and my family—he knows the truth of what happened with Balekin—he knows Philomel is the Lost Heir—and this is what he's worried about? What people will think if they know I used to be a servant?

And then I can't hold it in. I stagger, hands on knees, tears pouring from my eyes as I laugh, peal after peal of silent, guffawing laughter at Madoc's expense. Every time I look at him, my laughter starts afresh, at the sheer, ludicrous absurdity of my stepfather's concerns.

Everyone watches me stagger around, bemused and nonplussed. "Just what," Madoc asks eventually, "is so funny?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Birch says dryly. "But if I were to hazard a guess, I'd say she thinks your worries are somewhat…misplaced."

Madoc's mouth tightens. "You'll learn, goblin." He waves that wand, and my laughter is abruptly cut off as the leash spell tightens again. "And you should know better, Taryn. Come, we're leaving."

He walks toward the exit, dragging me and the children after him. Dogwood growls, stumbling at the end of his leash, and Philomel mutters angrily. Any remaining hilarity quickly drains away, replaced by the steady burn of anger. I glare at Madoc's straight back, his broad shoulders. Of course, I think disgustedly. Of course he cares what the courtiers think. My dear old stepfather has always been completely obsessed with winning, at everything, all the time; and no one, not even a Grand General of Faerie, can really win anything unless they have an audience confirming their triumph—or, at the very least, an opponent acknowledging defeat. No one be victorious in a void. Naturally Madoc has always cared passionately about what other people think: to be obsessed with winning is to be obsessed with someone else's opinion of you.

Birch steps up to me as we exit the tent. Albia, he signs, behind the children's backs, how is it that Madoc is your stepfather?

That's a long story, I reply. I wince at the brilliant morning light. Tell you later, all right?

He nods. Then he stiffens as he spots something beyond me. His crest stands up, flashing red and blue, and his eyes narrow as he growls in sudden hostility and rage.

I turn, already knowing who I'll see.

Balekin. Striding across the camp, looking grimly determined, in his traveling clothes. I fight the urge to vomit, and step in front of Dogwood and Philomel. At my hip, my knife and salt are heavy and reassuring, but half of me wants to cower and hide, and the other half wants to grab my kids and run as far and as fast as I can.

Birch steps closer, still glaring, crest rattling with rage. I can feel him vibrating beside me. Madoc casts him a warning glance before saying mildly, "Good morning, Prince Balekin. Did you sleep well?"

From another nearby tent, Heather, Cardan and my sisters are being escorted, all of them looking as cranky and sleep-deprived as I feel. They spot Balekin. Cardan and Heather both stiffen, Vivienne's lips curl back in a snarl, and Jude's hand goes to where a sword would be if she wasn't stripped of her weapons.

Balekin pays no attention. He cranes around me, trying to see Philomel. "Hello, Philomel," he says in a warm voice that makes me feel sick. "I'm Prince Balekin Greenbriar. Did you sleep well?"

Philomel, my good girl, says nothing, but presses closer to me, holding Lulu tight. I push her further behind me. Balekin's mouth tightens, and I fight a smirk.

"She's a little girl, Your Highness," Madoc says. "And I've forbidden her and her family to talk to anyone."

Balekin scowls. "Why not?"

"Because I've had enough of my family whispering and conspiring in corners," Madoc snaps, glaring at Jude in particular. "I've had enough of them running off. So they stay with me, and they speak to no one during this journey."

"Like we'd want to," Philomel sneers. Frantically, I hush her, not daring to take my eyes from our captors.

Balekin's eyes flick to us, leaving trails of corruption on my skin. "I understand that Taryn can no longer speak to anyone anyway."

And he smiles.

That smile. For a long, horrible moment, I'm seventeen years old again: seventeen and helpless, on my back in that garden, skirts yanked up around my waist, feeling the stabbing and tearing inside, the unspeakable humiliation and violation. Balekin smiling, Balekin cursing me, Balekin having his will and then throwing me away, like a piece of garbage, into the void of anguish and despair—

And a small, warm hand slips into mine. "Mommy." Philomel looks up at me, eyes beautiful and innocent and scared. "Mommy?"

I remember.

I am not seventeen years old anymore. I'm not some helpless victim, the Court's plaything. I am Philomel's mother. I am Dogwood's mother. I am the Lady Healer, the Unicorn-Blessed, and I decided long ago that I would not play the evil games of faeries or courtiers. And I have children to protect.

I draw myself up, gripping Dogwood's hand, rough and clawed, while I hold Philomel's. I make myself look at Balekin. I stare him straight in the eye, not bending the knee, letting him see the full depth of my hatred and contempt.

His smirk falters. He blinks, looking—unnerved. Just for a moment, but it's there.

Now I'm the one who's smirking. Take that, you shit. I pull both my children closer, still looking Balekin in the eye. You may want my daughter, you loathsome putrescence, but she's mine. I will never let you have her.

He sees this in my eyes. His jaw tightens.

Madoc looks between us, an eyebrow raised. "Perhaps there's no need to converse, anyway," he says dryly. "Come, Taryn, children." He lays a hand on my shoulder, steering me away, though he has no need to; his spell yanks me and the children after him, preventing us from leaving his side. Walking close beside Madoc, I have a sudden insight into why he cast that spell. It's not just to keep us from escaping: it's to keep us out of Balekin's hands. After all, as long as we're tied to Madoc, Balekin can't get us alone.

And now I have to be grateful that my children and I are on a leash.

Birch slinks after us, still glowering at Balekin. He's noticed; my old nightmare raises an eyebrow, staring at Birch in haughty annoyance. My heart clenches, for there's no binding spell protecting Birch. Stop it, Birch, I turn to sign urgently. Maybe I can be defiant on my own behalf, but not on Birch's. He can have you killed.

Birch snarls, snapping his jaws, but forces his gaze away, lowering his crest. As the camp disassembles around us, he lets a knight hoist him up onto a horse. Around us, knights and soldiers are mounting up, and even my sisters and their lovers mount without resistance.

Madoc's charger stands ready, held by a knight, with a large, mild-looking beast tied up behind it on lead reins. I guess today the children and I won't have to ride on Madoc's horse. "My lord," the knight says respectfully, bowing to Madoc. "Lady Taryn," he adds, bowing to me.

I frown at him. What's with this "Lady Taryn" business? They were calling me that last night, too, now that I think about it. And that's not right, is it? The servants and retainers always used to call me "Miss Taryn" before, and there certainly wasn't any bowing…

And suddenly the morning goes ice-white and frozen as I realize why.

"Mommy?" Dogwood tugs at my hand, little face scrunched with concern. "Mommy, are you okay?"

"Yeah," Philomel chimes in, peering up at me. "What's the matter?"

I stare down at her, my daughter. Her face, so young and so innocent. A little girl, holding a homemade rag doll. My lips move, forming her name in desperate prayer. Please, please, let me be wrong.

Madoc's hands go around my waist, and he lifts me up, mounting me on the horse tied behind his own, followed shortly by the children. I put my arms around them, gathering them close, as though this will keep them safe. Inside, my heart thunders.

"Move out!" Madoc snaps, and we gallop off into the sky.

It's a miserable journey.

Dogwood hates every minute. He lets out a scream as we mount into the air, cowering back against me as the land falls away. I pull him close, thinking he's afraid of the height, but he sobs, "Too much sky. Too much sky."

I glance up at the cloudless, empty vault. I hadn't thought of this, but I suppose it makes sense: except for last night, when he was too upset to pay attention, Dogwood has never been under the open sky in his entire life. Even the highest treeways are built well below the canopy, out of the reach of crag eagles, swooper dragons and other aerial predators that may or may not be immune to the goblins' covenant with the trees. Always, there was a protective, reassuring roof of leaves and branches over our heads, and now it's gone. Philomel too looks a bit intimidated, glancing upward, but she says, "It's okay, Dogwood. Don't look."

He doesn't. Dogwood rides rigid and clinging before me, eyes tight shut, while Philomel goes in the opposite direction. She starts craning over, so far she makes my heart thud, admiring the landscape so far below, pointing out lakes and mountains, exclaiming at the novelty of flight. "Look at that, Mommy!" she cries, pointing out a long, serpentine river, and shows the view to Lulu too. I try to smile and admire landmarks below, pulling her back from the edge periodically, while my horrible realization ricochets sickeningly in my mind. I also try hard not to express a strange sense of annoyance and betrayal—that she's enjoying this.

This must be how Vivienne felt, when we were first brought here and Jude and I started enjoying ourselves. Doesn't Philomel understand what's happened? Well, of course she does, but she's a child: she can't help enjoying the novelty.

Much worse, Balekin rides beside Madoc, just ahead. Fortunately, he's too busy riding to look back at us—much. I can feel his every glance like the brush of a rotting corpse. I concentrate on holding onto the children.

Naturally, he insists on eating lunch with us, when we finally halt at midday in a large, sunny meadow. "I'll be eating with you," he informs Madoc, dismounting when we land.

"Of course," Madoc says mildly. He forestalls me from dismounting on my own, lifting me down himself. I can't say I'm entirely ungrateful: I feel like I'm one big ache, from my bones to my mind, hurting with the strain of riding and with keeping my disgust and horror at bay. "Foxfire, bring Prince Cardan, the mortal and my daughters here," Madoc orders, hauling my children down.

The knights begin herding our fellow prisoners over. Beyond them, I can see Birch, staring miserably and helplessly after them.

Balekin scowls. "Why them?"

"They're my family," Madoc says reasonably. "Of course they'll be eating with me. The pavilion should be up momentarily."

"Oh, we get our own pavilion?" Heather says brightly. "Classy." She lets out a low whistle, watching the soldiers cast the spells that send the tent hoisting itself into the air. "Beats a roadside diner any day."

"What's a roadside diner?" Philomel wants to know.

"It's a place where they serve you bacon that gives you heartburn and pancakes that give you colic." Heather pokes her playfully in the stomach. "If you ever get to the human world, I'll take you to one."

Philomel gives a tired giggle. "That's silly!"

I glance at Vivi: has Heather been like this all day? She shrugs and shakes her head helplessly. I guess that means she has. I shake my own head, marveling.

"I thought they weren't supposed to talk," Balekin says, rather sulkily.

"They're not," Madoc says, glaring at us all warningly.

Heather turns guileless eyes on him. "What, I can't even talk to the kids? Try and cheer them up a little?"

He pauses. "You can speak to the children," he says at last, grudgingly. "But no one else."

"Oh, good," says Cardan brightly, and turns to the kids. "Dogwood, Philomel, will you tell the General that our tent simply isn't good enough? Absolutely squalid—and I object to having to share with anyone but Jude. If I'm being dragged back to Court against my will, I really do insist on some privacy, and comforts commensurate to my rank."

Dogwood looks up from clinging to my side. "What's 'commensurate' mean?"

"It means appropriate," Madoc says coldly. "And you're staying right where you are, Prince Cardan. You've proved yourself utterly untrustworthy and your father has specifically charged me with ensuring that you don't get away again."

"Children," says Cardan, "tell the General that this is poor repayment for the faerie who's kept his daughters safe on a long, dangerous journey into the wilderness. Ask him exactly what makes me so untrustworthy, and how sharing a tiny little tent with three women is supposed to secure me from escape. Ask him why my father has suddenly taken such a keen interest in me after a lifetime of barely acknowledging my existence, and—"

"Enough," growls Madoc, a muscle jumping in his jaw, and we are all herded into the pavilion, Cardan smirking and Jude fighting down a grin.

Naturally, it's a very strained meal. Heather does her best to engage the kids, and Cardan eats with urbane languidness, as though it's all been laid on for his royal benefit, but the rest of us stare at our captors with wariness and hatred, hardly touching our food. I wish Birch were here. But then I remember his reaction to Balekin this morning, and think it's probably better that he's not.

I can't take my eyes from Madoc and Balekin. They're like two wargs snarling at each other over a juicy bone, under the thin guise of polite conversation. Every few minutes, Balekin's eyes flick to me or to Philomel, bright with avarice. I just know he's thinking furiously, wondering how to get us into his custody without telling Madoc that Philomel is his daughter. He won't risk that, for it would inevitably uncover the truth.

I suppose that's something to be grateful for, but not nearly enough. With an effort, I turn away and concentrate on Madoc.

My chief emotion, strangely, is one of disbelief: how can he be so damn calm? Smile and pour wine for a creature he's vowed to kill, who he knows has dishonored his daughter and insulted his house in the most grievous way possible?

An odd thought surfaces: Jude was wrong. She was wrong, all those years when she said that Madoc was just acting according to his nature when he killed our parents. That he was a redcap and couldn't help it. She's wrong. Madoc can control himself just fine—when he wants to. He just didn't want to, that day.

And that just proves that it wasn't his honor Madoc was defending that day. It was his ego. But, really, isn't honor just another word for ego? Just a pretty word for selfishness and vanity and pride. Just another way for the powerful and privileged to oppress the rest of us, to pretend they're doing right when they know they're doing wrong. Just like Madoc will, when he enacts what I know he will.

A silent growl rises in my throat. My frozen disbelief from this morning has gone, replaced by a simmering fury at what I know Madoc is planning, for me and for my daughter.

Perhaps luckily, I don't have time to dwell on it. Madoc's in a hurry; within an hour, he's calling an end to lunch. We head back outside, to an afternoon darkening with clouds, and the pavilion collapses behind us. Around us, the camp finishes eating and gets on their horses, with admirable speed and efficiency.

Madoc's hands go around my waist again. I give him a scowl as he pushes me back on my horse: why is he insisting on loading and unloading me and the kids himself, every time? We could mount ourselves. But then I see Balekin's glower, and I realize: Madoc wants to be seen touching us at every opportunity. It reinforces his claim on us. My stomach clenches.

Within minutes, we're back in the sky again.

By the time we land again, in the purple dusk above a winding river in the forest, thousands of miles from the valley, my physical discomfort has almost overcome my mental horror and anxiety. I'm actually grateful when Madoc pulls me off the horse; there's no way I could dismount myself. I let out a silent moan: who knew it was possible to be this stiff?

"Mommy?" Dogwood, placed on his feet beside me, looks at me anxiously. "Are you okay?"

I'll be fine, I manage to sign. I'm just not used to riding anymore. A twinge runs through me, and I wince.

"Here." He holds up his hands.

I hesitate. Everyone is around, all landing and dismounting, starting to unsaddle their mounts and set up camp for the night. Even now, Madoc is lifting Philomel down from the horse. If I use the unicorn's gift here, and Dogwood echoes it back on me, everyone will see. But, really, that may not be such a bad thing. Let them see my power.

I summon the unicorn's magic. Heads turn and mouths gape as the white light wreathes around my hands, clear and bright in the gloaming, and Madoc, still holding Philomel, turns sharply as I hold out my hands and Dogwood echoes the spell back onto me.

I let out a long, luxurious sigh of relief as the healing magic goes through me, melting away all my aches and pains under a wave of warmth. I raise my arms in a stretch, demonstrating my lack of stiffness to my slack-jawed audience, and smirk around.

Even Balekin looks taken aback. "That magic…"

"The unicorn's magic." Madoc speaks loud and clear, facing the crowd. He still holds my daughter, ignoring her wriggles and attempts to escape. "My daughter, Lady Taryn, was blessed by the unicorn," he announces to the camp, "with the ability to heal any wound or sickness. Isn't that right, Birch?"

Birch, escorted up to us, nods warily. "That's right."

Philomel wriggles harder than ever. "Put me down!"

Madoc smiles slightly and lowers her down; he's made his point. She runs to me immediately, taking my hand, and I glower at Madoc's back as he hauls us across the camp again, going slowly, letting everyone get a good, long look at his miraculous, unicorn-blessed daughter and her children. I think my little display may have backfired. I'd hoped to impress our captors with a demonstration of my own power, but it seems Madoc has turned even that to his advantage. He's used it to demonstrate his power. His possession of me, and of Philomel.

Behind us, I can feel Balekin seething with rage and frustration. Here he has yet to lay a finger on Philomel, and Madoc is parading us around, putting his hands on Philomel every chance he gets, cementing his claim on his granddaughter. The more Madoc demonstrates his possession, the more entrenched it becomes, and the harder it gets for Balekin to muscle in, to establish a claim on the girl he thinks will get him his throne. I smile a little: that's one thing to be grateful for, anyway.

As soon as we're inside his hastily-erected tent, though, Madoc drops his triumphant air. He turns to me, suddenly serious. His eyes play over Dogwood. "The boy's a Mirror, isn't he?"

"I'm an Echo," Dogwood says, scared but defiant.

"He can echo any spell back at you," Philomel says mockingly. "Better watch out."

"Quite so." Madoc looks at my son thoughtfully. "You need training up." He looks past us to the Mirror knight, who has slipped in after us. "Saxifrage, perhaps you can start, once we get home."

I step forward, mouth a grim line. I push Dogwood back and glare into Madoc's eyes. Maybe I'm a prisoner, but I'm still Dogwood's mother—and I have no intention of letting General Madoc turn my son into a military asset.

Madoc sees this in my gaze. "After I've discussed this with your mother, of course," he says. He looks past me to Birch. "And while we're waiting for dinner, Birch, you can start teaching me sign language."

I stare at him, simmering with anger and frustration. Why does Madoc always have to turn every situation to his advantage? Why does he always have the upper hand, no matter what? I think of my horrified realization of this morning, and feel my blood freeze. I look at my daughter, now slumping to the floor in exhaustion. Philomel may be powerful, but she's only six years old. There's no way she, or Dogwood, can put up any resistance to Madoc's plans for them.

And maybe I can't either.

Madoc monopolizes Birch all evening, making him drill him in the phonetic alphabet and basic signs. I wait for Birch to come join me and the children behind the screen, but Madoc makes him sleep out in the main tent. We don't get a chance to talk, either that night, or the next morning, or for the rest of the week.

For so it goes on, as we journey across Faerie on sky-galloping horses and very little sleep, my kids drooping and getting crankier every day, and Balekin a constant, horrible presence. That's one thing my children's bad temper is good for, I think with grim humor as I put a stop to yet another fight: at least it distracts me from my rapist.

Over mountains and forests and plains we travel, at breakneck speed, until I wonder that the poor horses don't drop dead of exhaustion. I'm genuinely starting to wonder if we'll ever stop, when one evening Madoc says to us, "Put on your Court clothes tomorrow. We'll be arriving."

Philomel and I look up from where I'm brushing and braiding up her hair. "What clothes?" she asks suspiciously.

"I had a dress made for you," he says. "You're to wear it tomorrow, for our entrance to Court."

"No, I won't," she mutters, toying sullenly with Lulu.

"Yes, you will," Madoc says calmly. "Make sure they both dress properly," he adds to me.

I glower at him helplessly. Everything has to be perfect for our grand entrance, huh? I want to spit at him.

Madoc sighs. For the first time, I notice that he looks weary: face hollowed and eyes shadowed. This week hasn't been much easier for him than it has been for us, but there's not a shred of sympathy in my heart. He brought it entirely on himself.

"I wish you'd stop looking at me like that, Taryn," he says. "Whatever you think of my actions, I am on your side."

I stare at him disgustedly. He really believes this.

Philomel and Dogwood both gape at him. "How are you on our side?" Philomel demands. "You kidnapped us!"

"It was necessary." Again, he really believes this. Or, at least, he's convinced himself he does. Faeries are remarkably good at that. "You need to be with your family and the High Court. Your mother would never have brought you home on her own."

"We were home!" Philomel spits.

"What sort of home was that? A one-room cottage in the wilderness, surrounded by monsters?" Madoc's gaze flicks to me. "Your mother certainly wouldn't have lasted out there. Mortals age so rapidly; she wouldn't have been able to outrun the predators for much longer. Actually, it's amazing she survived as long as she did. I can only assume the unicorn was protecting you all." He turns back to Birch. "Time for another lesson, I think."

Birch stares at him a moment, face unreadable. Then he begins to sign.

Great Trees, how did a swine like you manage to raise Albia?

Dogwood and Philomel both bite back giggles, looking away even as they sneak peeks back, hands over their mouths. I have to fight down my own grin, warmth spreading inside me. Oh, Birch, this is why I love—

Madoc hits him.

One minute Birch is standing, facing Madoc down; then he's on his back, one hand over his eye, Madoc standing over him, fist still clenched. Dogwood and Philomel both cry out, clinging to me in terror, and that's all that stops me from lunging at Madoc, my heart filled with white-hot rage.

"I salute your honor and courage, Birch." Madoc's voice is as calm as ever. "But consider that a warning." His eyes play over me and the cowering children. "That goes for the rest of you. I will have no backtalk or disobedience, no conspiracy or insolence, or Birch can take your punishment. Is that clear?"

I stare at him disbelievingly. But of course, of course: Madoc has seen this angle. Birch makes the ideal whipping boy: he's someone the children and I all care about deeply, but to Madoc, he's expendable. If my stepfather injures or kills Birch, it's no great loss to him, but it will hurt me and the children immeasurably.

And in that moment, I hate Madoc more than I ever did before.

Birch, holding a hand to his blackened eye, sits up, groaning. I dart to his side and help him to his feet. I lead him back to the screen, children clinging, glaring bloody murder over my shoulder at Madoc: care to stop me, stepfather mine?

He does not, but lets me lead Birch back. I pull the screen to and the children and I cluster around Birch as I sit him down on the cot. I gently pull his hand away and lay my palm over his injured eye. The white unicorn-light flashes, and the wound melts away.

Birch sighs gratefully, giving me a tired smile. Dogwood clambers up on the cot beside him, and Birch puts an arm around him.

I hate him. Philomel is standing rigid, trembling with rage, Lulu dangling from her grasp. Her hair glows like a vengeful star. I hate him!

Philomel, stop it. I kneel before her. Don't try to fight him. Not now, not yet. Not like that. If you do, Birch will get punished.

She just shakes her head, tears trailing down her face, and I take her in my arms. At first her body is stiff and unyielding, but then she melts into me, shaking with trauma and exhaustion, and I hold my daughter as Birch holds my son, alone and helpless in the monster's grasp.

"Make sure you dress properly tomorrow," comes Madoc's voice from beyond the screen, deep and calm.

The next morning, I get the kids into their new Court clothes. They grumble, but they're too tired and too shaken from last night to really resist. Once I've gotten them dressed and Philomel's hair brushed, I have to blink at how beautiful they both look: even Dogwood looks like a noble, and Philomel, of course, glows like the faerie princess she is.

My heart clenches at this thought. It must show in my face, as Dogwood looks up. What's the matter, Mommy? he signs.

I can't look into his wide, trusting eyes. Nothing, sweetie. You both look wonderful. I turn away to don my own dress.

It doesn't quite fit me anymore, and it's not one of my old, elaborate costumes that required Tatterfell's help to get me into, but it's still the fanciest, most beautiful gown my children have ever seen me in. Dogwood's eyes widen, and Philomel's face lights up. You're beautiful, Mommy!

I smile at her. The dress is too tight, constricting my breathing. So are you, sweetie. Let's go out to breakfast.

We go out, in all our finery. Madoc is already waiting for us, pacing back and forth by the table. He's dressed in a fine black uniform, very military and formal. He looks us over and nods shortly. "Good."

Birch, hanging back, isn't dressed particularly fine—I guess it doesn't matter what he looks like—but he blinks at me, a slow sweep of eyelashes. "Albia—you look—" He pauses, and I catch my breath in hope and a strange embarrassment. "—Different," he finishes, still blinking.

In a good or bad way? I sign.

I haven't decided yet, he signs back, and my heart thumps oddly.

B-R-E-A-K-F-A-S-T, Madoc signs out the phonetic letters, glaring at us, a reminder that he is learning sign language fast, and our silent conversations won't be private for much longer. With some final resentful scowls, we all sit down.

You both look good, kids, Birch tells the children.

Philomel gives a weak little smile at this, but Dogwood stares down at the table. I don't want to look good, he signs miserably. I want to go home.

Me too, Birch and I both sign at the same time, and look at each other in surprise.

Madoc eyes us over his cup's rim, but says nothing, in any language.

Outside, it's a lovely day. I feel as though I almost recognize these woods, from my journey seven years ago, though that was entirely by night, and now they're lit by a beautiful clear morning. Madoc yanks me and the children across the dismantling camp, Saxifrage in close attendance, and another knight chivvies Birch off to his own horse.

Naturally, Prince Scumwadkin is already waiting, slapping his gloves against his open hand in impatience. He straightens when he sees us coming. "You look lovely, Lady Taryn," he smirks. I fight to keep from wincing; his use of my new title is like a blow. His eyes play over Dogwood and Philomel. "Your children as well." He gives Philomel a smile, and she draws back. "Indeed, Philomel, you look like a princess."

"I'm not a—" Philomel starts.

Hush, Philomel! Don't speak to him! I push both children behind me, clutching their hands. I vibrate with rage and loathing as I glare at this monster, worse than Madoc ever was. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you worthless piece of faerie shit, you vile little rapist, you disgusting, suppurating boil on the face of the world. You may want my daughter, but if it's the last thing I do, I'll make sure you never get your filthy hands on her!

He draws back, seeing all this in my eyes. His lip curls, but he can do nothing but watch as Madoc swings the children up onto the horse and hoists me after them. I take a deep breath, trying to calm down, as the children turn to stare at me.

Who is that man, Mommy? Philomel asks me. She glances at Balekin, and I have to fight the urge to pull her back around. Why's he always looking at us like that? Why do you always get so angry when he's around?

And here I thought I'd been hiding it. Smiling ruefully, I sign, We used to know each other. We didn't get along. I pet her hair, and squeeze Dogwood's shoulder. Don't ever try to talk to him, children. Stay as far from him as you can. All right?

Wide-eyed, they nod. I don't like him anyway, Philomel signs, and Dogwood nods.

I smile at them fondly. My children have such good taste.

Off to the side, I see Heather, Cardan and my sisters all being escorted onto their own horses. They're dressed a little more neatly than usual today, but nothing like the splendor Madoc's put me and the children in. I guess we alone are going to be the stars of Madoc's little side show today—and Madoc himself, of course. I smile grimly.

"Move out!" yells Madoc, and off we go.

We're not far from the coast at all. Soon I see the ocean, a straight, perfect line on the horizon that rapidly draws closer, unfurling into a great, wrinkled blue plain, dashing itself against the long coastline. The children gape, even Dogwood losing his fear in wonderment. "Is that the ocean, Mommy?" he asks, craning over to look at it.

Be careful. I pull him back. And yes, that's the ocean. We're heading for some islands, far out to sea.

Indeed, farther than I remember. A journey that seemed to take the unicorn only a few minutes takes ordinary faerie horses half a day, galloping soundlessly over the endless blue water. They could take forever, as far as I'm concerned. Dread is a pit in my stomach, digging itself deeper the closer we get to Court. I scan the horizon for the islands, hoping they never show. I don't want to arrive. I want never to arrive.

But of course they eventually hove into view: a vague shadow at first, that resolves quickly into the great hulks of Eldred's islands, the waves smashing against the cliffs and beaches. Indeed, the horses gallop faster when they see dry land and journey's end, wheeling over the islands, with their hills and woods and gardens, their mansions and palaces and fairgrounds. They're a gorgeous sight, like green jewels set in a sheet of blue silk, and they make my stomach drop in black despair. The children gasp in wonder and amazement as I close my eyes under the assault of memory. But nothing can stop our final descent.

There it is: Madoc's stronghold, my childhood home and prison. Bigger than I remember, grander (of course, I've done my best not to remember it at all), with servants and retainers hurrying to line up outside and welcome the master and his prodigal descendants home. I feel rather than see Balekin's scowl at Madoc's taking center stage, the prince relegated to the background, as my stepfather grandly lands on the drive before the house, and my own horse's hooves touch the ground.

And now—my heart catches—there's a familiar figure. It's Oriana. My stepmother, paler than I remember, face thinner, hurrying from the front door toward us, all formality forgotten. "Taryn?" Tears sting my eyes at the sound of her voice. It's been so long since I've heard it. I thought I'd never hear it again. "Taryn! Is that really you?"

"It is indeed." Madoc, having dismounted, now lifts me from the saddle one last time, carrying me high and swinging me around so everyone can see me, in my Court finery and in his power. "Lady Taryn and her children, Dogwood and Philomel. Our grandchildren, Oriana."

A murmur arises from the watching crowd, of surprise and interest, as Madoc lifts down my children, first Dogwood and then Philomel, lifting them high, letting everyone get a good look, before placing them on the ground. Dogwood rushes to bury his face in my skirt, but Philomel stands rigid, fists clenched at her sides, Lulu dangling, staring at the ground.

Oriana draws back slightly. Her eyes widen as she takes in Philomel. Her gaze flicks to me and then, almost imperceptibly, to Balekin, still on his horse, scowling.

Perhaps only I see the knowledge and horror flash through her expression, her realization of what must have happened, and only because she's so close. She catches her breath, face whitening further. Then she swirls around me. She takes me in her arms and embraces me tightly, as though that will protect me. I can't help but hug her back, heart full of a painful gladness, at her touch, at her scent.

"Taryn," she whispers fiercely. "Taryn."

"Who are you?" Philomel demands rudely, holding her doll like a shield.

Oriana releases me and kneels down on the ground, to smile into Philomel's eyes. "I am Lady Oriana, your mother's stepmother," she says gently. "And I'm glad to meet you. You're Philomel, I assume? And this is Dogwood?" She turns to Dogwood, who buries his face deeper in my skirt. "Welcome home."

"This isn't our home," Philomel mutters rebelliously.

"Perhaps not now," Oriana says. "But I hope we can make it welcoming for you." She stands, turning to Madoc. "I'm very glad to see your safe return, husband," she says, sweet and gentle. "And that you managed to collect all the children." She smiles at Cardan, Heather and my sisters as they're herded forward, sallow-faced, exhausted and resentful, followed closely by Birch.

Cardan manages a bow. "Greetings, Lady Oriana. We're all back home, aren't we?"

She gives him a curtsy. "Indeed you are, Your Highness. Welcome back." And now Oriana turns the sweetest, gentlest smile imaginable on Balekin, and sweeps him her deepest curtsy. "Prince Balekin," she practically coos. "Your Highness. How thoughtful of you to devote so much of your time and energy to helping Madoc find and return my daughters and grandchildren, especially at such a time."

He smiles thinly. "I was happy to do so, Lady Oriana."

"I'm sure you were." One hand still on my back, Oriana wheels me around and starts herding us all toward the house. Somehow, she's got me and the children by her side, my sisters and their lovers ahead of her, but Madoc and Balekin are left trailing away behind. "Let's all go inside. You must be exhausted…"

Up the steps we all go, and into the house. The rush of memories this brings—the scent of the hall—is enough to make my eyes squeeze shut, watering.

"Miss Taryn?" A familiar voice says. I open my eyes to see, of all people, Tatterfell, hovering nearby, staring at me disbelievingly. "Is that really you?"

"It is indeed," Madoc says brusquely. "And it's Lady Taryn now."

Tatterfell's eyes widen, but she sinks into a deep curtsy to me. "Lady Taryn," she says meekly. Her eyes play over the children, wonderingly.

As well they might. She'll know, soon enough, the reason for my elevation. Because, while "Miss Taryn" might have been good enough for the bastard stepdaughter of a High Court General, the mother of an heir to the High Throne of Faerie must have a proper title.

Because that's what I am to Madoc now. That's what I realized, that first morning. What Madoc is going to do.

He's going to try and put Philomel on the throne. He's going to try to make her High Queen. And to hell with whether or not she survives the experience.