Swallowing Darkness (Merry Gentry #7)(24)

“I am honest.” The perfume of roses was growing stronger. It was not the heavy, cloying scent of modern roses, but the light, sweet scent of the wild. The herbs added a warm, thick undertone to the scent, as if we were standing in the middle of an herb garden with a hedge of wild roses around it to guard it and keep it safe.
The wall beside the large bed stretched inward, like the skin of some great beast being pushed farther away. When the Seelie or Unseelie sithen moved, it was almost invisible. One moment this size, the next bigger or smaller, or just different. But this was the sluagh sithen, and apparently here we’d get to see the process.
The dark stone stretched like rubber into a darkness more complete than any night. It was cave darkness, but more than that, it was the darkness at the beginning of time before the word and the light had found it, before there was anything else but the dark. People forget that the darkness came first, not the light, not the word of Deity, but the dark. Perfect, complete, needing nothing, asking nothing, simply all there was was the dark.
The scent of roses and herbs was so real that I could taste it on my tongue, like drinking in a summer’s day.
Dawn broke in the darkness. A sun that had nothing to do with the sky outside the sithen rose in the distant curve of sky, and as the soft light brightened, it revealed a garden. I would have said it was a knot garden, that time-consuming art of grooming herbs into clean, curved, Victorian lines, but my eyes couldn’t quite make out the herbs’ shape. It was almost as if the longer you tried to see the plants, and the stone walkway between them, the more your eye couldn’t make sense of them. It was like a knot garden based on non-euclidean geometry. The kind of shapes that are impossible with physics the way it’s supposed to work, but then there was a sun underground, and a garden that hadn’t been there moments before. What was a little nonstandard geometry compared to that?A hedge bordered the entire garden. Had it been there a second before? I could neither remember it; nor not remember it. It simply was. It was the circle of wild roses, like the one I’d seen in a vision once. That had been a mixed vision, part wonderment and part near-death experience. I fought not to remember the great boar that had nearly killed me before I’d spattered its blood on the snow, because with creation magic what you thought could become all too real.
I thought about healing Mistral. I thought about my babies. I thought about the man standing beside me. I reached for Sholto’s hand. He actually startled, looking at me with eyes too wide, but he smiled when I smiled.
“Let us take him to the garden,” I said.
Sholto nodded, and bent to pick up the still-unconscious Mistral. I looked back at the doctor. “Are you coming, Henry?”
He shook his head. “This magic is not for me. Take him, save him. I will explain where you are.”
Sholto said, “I think the garden will remain here, Henry.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Henry said with a smile, but there was regret in his eyes. I’d seen that look in other humans inside faerie. That look that says that no matter how long they stay, they know they can never truly be one of us. We can prolong their life, their youth, but they are still human in a land where no one else is.
I knew what it was to be mortal in a land of immortals. I knew what it was to know that I was aging and the others were not. I was part human, and it was moments like this that made me remember what that meant. Even with the most powerful magic in all of faerie coming to my hand, I still knew regret and mortality.
I went on tiptoe and laid a gentle kiss on Henry’s cheek. He looked surprised, then pleased. “Thank you, Henry.”
“It is my honor to serve the royals of this court,” he said, in a voice that almost held tears. He touched where I had kissed him as I moved away, as if he could feel it still.
I went to Sholto, who stood there holding Mistral as if he weighed nothing and he could have held him all night. I took Sholto’s arm, laid my other hand on Mistral’s bare skin, and we walked into the garden.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE STONES OF THE GARDEN PATH MOVED UNDER MY BARE feet. I was suddenly aware that I had small cuts on my feet. The stones seemed to be touching the cuts.
I clutched Sholto’s arm more tightly, and looked down at what we walked upon. The stones were shades of black, but there were images in them. It was as if pieces of the formless part of the wild hunt were inside the stones, but it wasn’t just visuals. They reached out to the surface of the stones with tentacles and too many limbs, and they could touch us. The miniature pieces of the wild magic seemed particularly interested in anywhere that I was scraped or bleeding. 
I jumped, nearly pulling Sholto off the path. “What is wrong?” he asked.
“I think the stones are feeding on the cuts on my feet.”
“Then I need a place to lay the Storm Lord down, so I can carry you.” At his words, the center of the knot garden spread wide like a mouth, or a piece of cloth that you open to make room for a sleeve.
There was the sound of plants moving at speeds that no natural plant was ever meant to move, a dry, slithering rustling that made me look around. Sometimes when plants moved like that it was to simply make a new piece of faerie, but sometimes it was to attack. I’d been bled by the roses in the Unseelie antechamber. My blood had awoken them, but it had still hurt, and it had still been frightening. Plants don’t think like people, and making them able to move doesn’t change that. Plants don’t understand how animals think and feel. I suppose the same is true in reverse, but I wasn’t going to hurt the plants by accident, and I wasn’t so sure that the whispering, hurrying plants would grant me the same safety.
Normally I felt safe when the magic of the Goddess was moving this strongly, but there was just something about this garden that made me nervous. Maybe it was the feel of the stones moving under my feet, using small mouths to lick and drink from the minute cuts in my feet. Maybe it was the knotted herbs that made it almost dizzying if you looked at their patterns too long.
I looked behind us and found that the rose hedge had knitted itself completely around the garden. No, there was a gate in the hedge. It looked like a white picket fence gate with a wooden arch that curved gracefully over it. Then I realized that there were images in the pale wood. Then I knew it wasn’t wood. The gate was formed of bone.
There were four small trees in the center of the garden now, where the herbs and stones had moved aside. Vines curved up them, and the wood formed to the curving lines of the vines, the way that trees will when they’ve had the vines shaping them their entire lives. The vines interlaced above the trees, and the limbs and leaves of the trees interwove into a canopy. The vines formed a lacework lower down, and new herbs grew under the vines, forming a cushion of vegetation under them. The garden was growing a bed for Mistral.
Flower petals began to rain down upon the bed. Not just the rose petals that sometimes fell around me, but flowers of all colors and kinds. They formed four pillows that went across the width of the bed’s head. They formed a blanket, which pulled itself down to the foot of the bed, turning itself down for the night.
Sholto looked at me. His look was a question. I answered it as best as I could. “Your sithen has prepared a place for us to sleep and to heal Mistral.”
“And to heal you, Meredith.”
I squeezed his arm. “To heal us all.”
Sholto walked to the bed on a spill of green grasses so bright that it looked too green to be grass. The moment I stepped from the stone to the grass, I realized that it was small stones too. I gazed down at what we walked upon, and knew that it was formed of emeralds. It crunched underfoot, but it wasn’t sharp or hurtful. I had no words for the texture of the emeralds. It was almost as if they were real grass, but just happened to be formed of precious stones.
Sholto laid Mistral in the center of the bed. It was as if he knew what needed to be done to heal him. Deity wasn’t talking just to me tonight.
The bed was tall enough that I had to climb, rather than step, onto it. Vines in the bed frame curled around me, lifting me. It was actually a little more help than was comforting. The bed was a marvelous thing, but the thought of vines that could move that much curling around me while I slept wasn’t a completely good thought.Sholto knelt on the other side of Mistral from where I was crawling up beside him. “Who is the fourth pillow for?” he asked.
I knelt in the surprising softness of herbs, vines, and petals, and stared at the pillow. I started to say, “I don’t know,” but in the middle of the breath to say it, another word came. “Doyle.”
Sholto looked at me. “He is in the human hospital miles away, surrounded by metal and technology.”
I said, “You are right,” but the moment I said it, I knew we had to get Doyle. We had to rescue him. Rescue him? I said it out loud. “We have to rescue him.”
Sholto frowned at me. “Rescue him from what?”
I had that moment of panic that I’d felt before. It wasn’t words but a feeling. It was fear. I’d only felt it twice before: once when Galen had been attacked by assassins, and the other time when Barinthus, our strongest ally in the Unseelie Court, had been at the wrong end of a magical plot in which our enemies had maneuvered the queen to kill him.