I notice that none of the rebels in earshot looked around during our conversation. Mal must have already warned them about the fae and their glamours, yet they haven’t called us out for trying to deceive them. I try to think of it as a good sign as we ride on toward their base.
The sun is low in the sky by the time we hit a wide road that signs say leads all the way to the Wirstones. We’re not on that road for long when a settlement comes into view. The buildings seem mismatched—mostly made of wood, but with the occasional stone structure or line of thick canvas tents. A waystation, I guess, for weary travelers on their way to the big towns and cities further south.
As we get closer, the smell of hot food wafts from multiple inns, mingling with the earthy manure scent coming from nearby stables and livery yards. We pass a repair shop and hear the clink and bang of blacksmiths and carpenters working on broken wagons and fresh horseshoes.
“Where are we?” Damia asks as the rebels start to dismount.
“Tread,” Mal answers. “It’s the biggest waypoint town this side of the Wirstones.”
“You can stable your horses with ours,” says the redheaded rebel.
“Will they be safe?” Phaia asks.
“As safe as ours,” she replies. “We have an agreement with one of the livery yard owners, just up here.”
When we’ve handed over our horses, the rebels lead us behind a row of buildings toward a cluster of tents wedged between the back of an inn and a blacksmith’s workshop.
“Thisis your base?” Eryx grunts skeptically.
The redhead gives him a cautious look. “One of them,” she says before ducking under the canvas. The others follow, with Leon staying close behind me as I step through with the fae. The tent is furnished with cushions and rugs to sit on and an unlit camping stove in the corner beside a pile of animal skins.
It seems like a gathering place for meetings, but while I expect to find everyone crowded together inside, I’m surprised to find an open hatch set into the earth with steps leading downward. It’s clever. You could remove the tent and cover the door with dirt, and no one would have any idea it’s here.
Most of the Hand members are already down below. I look at Leon, and he nods, telling me he thinks it’s safe to proceed.
“What will we do with Alastor?” Stratton asks, gesturing to Alastor, still lying unconscious in Hyllus’s arms.
“I can stay with him,” the large fae says, moving over to the pile of animal skins and gently setting Alastor down. Dots snuffles over and curls up beside Alastor.
“Look after them, please,” I murmur to the korigos before descending.
Downstairs, there’s a tunnel, which then opens up into a large stone cellar I suspect is attached to the blacksmith’s shop we saw above. That’s not all though. Through the doorway of the far wall, there’s a whole maze of cellars connected by passageways.
The redheaded woman disappears for a moment into the next room, then returns.
“We’ll need you to remove your glamours,” she says.
“Why?” Leon growls.
“You’re hidden here, and everyone at the base knows you’re fae already, but we want to be able to recognize you in your true forms, just in case.”
“Just in case,” Eryx repeats grumpily, and we all know she means “just in case this gets nasty.”
“Do it,” Leon orders as he removes his own glamour token. I sense he’s eager to cut to the chase, but I worry what exactly it’ll mean when we do. I have unpleasant visions of Leon leaping toward the rebel leader, sword drawn, before I’ve managed to get a word in.
There’s a subtle reaction in the rebels at the sight of the fae’s true forms. A ripple of nervousness, perhaps, as they see exactly how tall and clearly powerful the fae soldiers they’ve been escorting are. Even though I’ve grown used to the unit, I can see they’re an impressive bunch, especially all standing together.
“Through here,” the redhead says, gesturing to the door she just used. The other Hand members stay in the first cellar as we step through, but I know there’s a reason they brought all ten of them down here. They’re making sure they’re not so far away that they couldn’t come fight us if they needed to.
The neighboring room is sparse, with a few chairs and a large desk in the corner. A man with brown hair leans over it, examining a roll of parchment.
“Here they are, Harman,” the redhead says. There’s something new in her voice, a respectful softness I haven’t heard before, and I guess that despite the unassuming setting, this is the Hand’s leader.
As the man lifts his head, I’m struck by how young he looks. Still older than me, maybe early thirties, but I’d been picturing a person well into middle age. I glance up at Leon and see him reassessing things. This man would’ve still been a teenager fifteen years ago, when Leon’s parents died. Even if he was involved with the Hand back then, there’s no way he was their leader.
Harman drops the parchment and steps around the desk, his eyes flitting over the fae and then moving on, as if he’s discounting them. He looks briefly at Tira, but when his eyes land on me, they stay there, staring.
“You must be Princess Morgana,” he says. “I’m Harman Sandale.”
