King of the Woodlands

Chapter 20

Veins so blue and eyes so bright. No star is more fair than the girl with hair like autumn leaves; for her the shadow died to let her breathe.

The bean sídhe were faeries sprung from Lilibeth's worst nightmares. They were like banshees but worse, with dark, tattered mourning gowns and veils. Their faces were wrinkled and dry, their bodies nothing more than masses of tangled limbs crafted from weathered bone.

She knew every story about those faeries, for the village women whispered them over their spindles with shivering tongues. The bean sídhe washed the clothes of those who would die soon, haunting lonely bodies of water. They'd probably come from the muddy glen river.

From beneath the hoods of their black funeral cloaks, they stared at Lilibeth with dead, milky eyes. Each one only had a single slitted, caved in nostril, which flared as they sniffed in Lilibeth's direction. In their sagging hands they held Lilibeth's tunics, still wet from the water they'd washed them in.

The dread she felt was an invisible demon, and only she could hear it sharpening its swords. Her stomach lurched, her mind numb with shock.

Oh no, she couldn't die. Fear slammed through her, undiluted and pure. There were so many things she hadn't done (and they would be very difficult to do as a ghost).

Airmid's voice wove through the trees, carried by the wind. "This is my forest, and you will tread softly in it."

Lilibeth closed her eyes again, wishing she could sink to the bottom of the pond and swim with Tam Lin and his fish friends. She tried thinking of nice things, like the ringing of bluebells, the moon on a string, garlands of sunshine.

The world will be washed clean by our chaos. We have waited, swallowing decades and centuries.

She thought of a bowl of spiced pears in autumn, throwing bread to the pond ducks in summer, goose with chestnut stuffing in winter. She thought of homemade candles that looked like blueberry pies and gardens of verbena during the spring.

The trees whisper of our sins, child. Are you not afraid?

If Lilibeth opened her eyes, she'd die of fright. And the predictions of these evil faeries would come true. Instead, she reached for a place deep inside her, a numb stillness that had allowed her to endure nearly drowning in the village pond two years ago, the raw belief that no matter what happened, she'd live. She barely had enough hope left inside her, but it was enough to give her some weak semblance of courage.

"I am not afraid," she said, opening her eyes even though her every instinct screamed at her to close them. She looked directly into their swirling white eyes.

The bean sídhe fed on mortal fear, she knew. It made them stronger. She could not give them her fear, for they could spin fear into things with their greedy hands. And that was when people started gasping out prayers between their chattering teeth.

Don't let them see you break, the Faerie Queen of Tuath Dur said. You are Lilibeth Faren, the girl who succeeded when all others failed. You are flowers and rain and curiosity, and you stand apart.

She thought of all the times the village children had mocked her, called her strange. Yes, her oddness was evident in even the smallest things she did, but was that always a bad thing? At least she wasn't like Thronel and Estha (the latter had a name similar to her maid's, for skies' sakes).

Lilibeth had always marched through life with her head held high, acting like she didn't care when on the inside, she cared too much. But why should she care? She was different, and being different wasn't always a bad thing. Contrary and sour she might be, but she was a dangerous girl.