Game of Pawns

Chapter 22

The trek south towards the English Channel took about a day and a half of hitchhiking to Dover on the backs of merchant and farmer wagons. Arriving in the seaside town in the early morning left Junius awed by the splendors of the world in which he lived. The cliffs of limestone were a starkly contrasting white against the turquoise waters of the Channel. He stood up on a hillside, watching the way the shadows of clouds passed over the rippling emerald grass and crashing waves farther below. Every breath tasted sweet. The air chased the negativity from his chest, letting him breathe more deeply than he had in two days. He hadn't done more than grumble and growl at the others since they started walking.

Gulls floated on the breeze, passing overhead as they let out shrill cries. He watched the birds spread their wings to soar up high then cut down through the air currents, plummeting towards the waters, where they regained control of their descent to come to a graceful stop upon the waves. The constant rise and fall reminded him of the moon, the tide, and breathing. Such was a continuous cycle that never truly ceased. Just as the birds could hold themselves up among the clouds for a time, he could only retain his inhalations for so long before a release was necessary. A drop, a stumble, or a recession of some kind was a counterbalance to the highs in life.

Of course, he knew he wouldn't remain that optimistic about what was happening with the members of their traveling troupe. Jun kept telling himself that he should apologize for being immature or quarrelsome, but he also believed that it shouldn't be his responsibility alone. In order to come to an understanding, everyone needed to see the same plain, even if they came at it from different directions. Junius ran a hand through his wind-tousled hair then scratched at the stubble on his chin. He didn't know why he felt uncomfortable right then. Perhaps Zander's nightmare had gotten under his skin and was infecting him somehow.

Turning his back from the screeching seagulls and white-washed bluffs, Jun spotted Liza waiting for him beneath an oak tree with her back against the mossy trunk. The four of them had split up to explore the town on their own time while waiting for the ferry to arrive. He hadn't expected anyone to find him among the verdant knolls. Slipping his hands into his pockets, Jun strode towards her with raised brows.

"There was a time when the fey resided in these lands," said the elf as he got within earshot. The breeze toyed with her hair and the hem of her knee-length dress, teasing at a sight of her delicate collarbones and lily-white thighs. "But then the humans drove them out, back towards Tir Tairngire and Emain Ablach. Year after year, the encroachment continued until the faeries reached their breaking point."

Jun joined her at the tree, propping himself up against it with his shoulder. "The Faerie Wars?"

"So much changed for humans and fey during those years. The land itself was reshaped. Time was altered. History was reshuffled." She sounded distant, as if musing about a fading dream.

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the lilting cadences of her speech. There was always a solemn quality to everything Liza said. Was it regret? Dysphoria? Junius looked at her ageless face. The slope of her cheeks and the slant of her eyes betrayed nothing. Whatever she knew about past events, whatever she had witnessed, was forever locked within her mind. Condemned to memory.

"Tir Tairngire is much like this place. Maybe one day you'll be able to see it," continued Liza with a sigh.

"Of course. We'll go together."

The suggestion was meant to make her smile, even just a little. Instead, her eyes turned stormy. "Let's focus on reaching the Court of the Red Sun first."

Junius watched her leave the shade of the tree and begin down the dirt road leading back into the streets of Dover. The look was a betrayal to her composure. The moment her eyes lost their light was the moment Jun knew she was wary of what lay ahead. Zander had blathered—to the extent that someone as taciturn as he could blather—about the treacherous road to the entrance of the Romanian Wildwood. The potential danger had compounded with the earlier predictions about death, and it had settled upon everyone like an impenetrable fog. No light could shine through it. No warmth could be felt.