Grave Visions(89)

“Should the queen have noticed this sapling leaching from her power base here in Nekros?” I asked.

“She’s been rather distracted,” Falin said.

It was true. And maybe that was the point. I’d been trying to figure out what the alchemist would gain by kidnapping and draining fae, leaving the ghastly display he had with Icelynne’s bones, and distributing Glitter to mortals where it caused horrific, high-profile deaths. Maybe this tree explained all those actions. Maybe they were all distractions.

I thought back to what the nightmare kingling had said when we’d met in my dream. That realms of the imagination were the purview of the light fae. “What if it wasn’t a season? What if it was the light court?” Or shadow? They are certainly dwindling in power and could use a way to gather more. But Dugan had sworn the bogeymen weren’t working for his court. Could he simply not know?

“Light and shadow don’t have doors.”

“I know. But amaranthine trees don’t just appear, either. And like you said, it doesn’t make sense for another season to try so hard to establish an extra door—they could lose it at any time when Faerie next rearranges itself.”

Falin gave a one-shouldered half shrug that didn’t actually communicate anything. And that was likely the point. After a few long moments, he said, “Assuming what you’re suggesting is possible, light is the least likely to be orchestrating this invasive takeover. They are the only court that has stood by the queen in her recent . . . troubles . . . and not sent a challenger to duel for her throne. The Queen of Light is the Winter Queen’s sister.”

My mouth formed a silent O as I let that sink in. The ruling class of Faerie were not a very diverse bunch. Of course, when you lived as long as the fae, alliances through marriages and births were bound to tie a small population together.

I hugged my arms over my chest, trying to quell the shiver threatening to tremble through me. Pond-soaked clothing was certainly not the warmest outfit. Falin glanced up, his gaze lingering over the gooseflesh visible on my arms. Then he stood and without a word, walked to the edge of the clearing. Reaching up, he grabbed a huge hunk of Spanish moss that dangled from one of the bottom branches of a tree.

He shook the twisted gray mat of plant matter and it grew in his hand, the shape and texture changing as he poured glamour into it. By the time he reached my side, he’d transformed the moss into a gray blanket.

He tossed it over my shoulders, tugging it around me so it covered my soaked clothes and most of my chilled skin. The fabric was heavy, and as velvety and soft as chenille. I tried hard to focus on how it appeared now, and not on the fact that a moment before it had been a tuft of stringy moss, because real or not, it was warm and I didn’t want my planeweaving to break the glamour.

“Better,” I said, as way of acknowledging the act since I couldn’t thank him.

Falin only nodded before turning back to the tree. “I think we should dig it up and take it to the queen.”

“Now? We don’t have any shovels.”

He patted his pockets and pulled out his phone. A few drops of water dripped from the speaker when he turned it upright. Yeah, he wouldn’t be making any calls with that anytime soon. Maybe not ever.

I searched for my own phone, but it wasn’t in my pocket. I’d had it in my hand when Jenny had grabbed me. If I was lucky, it was in the muck on the edge of the pond. If I was unlucky—and I typically was—I’d managed to hold on to it and it had been dragged into the pond with me. In which case, I’d never see it again. I needed to start paying for insurance on my phones. This was the third one I’d lost or destroyed this year.

We clearly weren’t going to be contacting the agents he’d called to come watch the lake. They were likely still on the road and could have stopped to pick up some supplies to help move the sapling, but oh well. I looked down at myself, I was already covered in slime and muck from my trip into the stagnant pond and then subsequent time unconscious in the mud on the bank. How much worse could I get digging up a tree?

I knelt beside the trunk and pulled my dagger from its sheath. The semicognizant dagger hated being driven into the ground, but despite its protests, it would get the job done. Brushing debris back from the base of the tree, I said, “Let’s do this then.”

• • •

By the time we’d unearthed the tree, I had mud caked under my nails and my fingers felt raw. Who knew such a small sapling would have so many roots? I considered rinsing my hands in the pond, but I doubted that would be much of an improvement. Besides, I didn’t want to get any closer to the water than I had to.