Eibhlin wasn’t even awake when she passed through to the other side of the door. She remembered running forward, brushing against the weeping branches and star-shaped flowers for longer than she thought possible, but when she started wondering why she had not yet reached the trunk, something struck her mind, jagged auras blurring her vision. Her stomach lurched, and she fainted. When she woke, all she could see was black. Soon, however, her eyes adjusted to the hints of light around her, and she saw black branches in such a tangle they could never be untied.

She shivered.

Sitting up, she heard and felt the drip of water and realized she had been lying in a shallow pool. Vegetation and mud clung to her hair and clothes. From behind her came a dull gargling sound. She jumped. Then she brushed against leather straps, and with a cry she pulled Melaioni from where it had fallen face-first into the water. It was half-covered in mud, and water dripped down the sound box. After wiping down the instrument as best she could, Eibhlin brought out her keys. Soft light spread around her.

They were in a swamp. Black trees stood everywhere, their branches either drooping to sweep against the water or reaching up to cover the sky. Moss hung from branches like ragged hair. Water covered most of the ground, turning the land into an archipelago. There were no natural sounds, so every movement Eibhlin made seemed to break some unspoken law. Her nerves tightened. No sound. Hardly any light. But there was a smell and a taste to the air: wet, earthy, old. Yes, old. That was the word she sensed. Old and hard and cold and forbidden.

This was not a place for mortal men to come.

Eibhlin shivered again. “Where is this place?” she asked.

“Fae country.”

Eibhlin yelped at the sudden reply. She might have run off if her legs had not given out. With a splash, she collapsed into the water. Trembling, she glared at the kithara.

“I do not believe I have done anything to deserve such a look, Milady,” said the instrument.

“You scared me.”

“A leaf would have frightened you just then,” said Mel. “And rightly so. Never trust a leaf in the Fae country unless you know its tree. But enough of that for now. I suggest we see if we cannot get a fire going. Probably not, since the ground is likely too wet for dry branches, and breaking a live limb off any tree in the Fae is usually fatal. But may as well try.”

There were no dry branches. Even if there had been, Eibhlin’s tinderbox was soaked. Instead, she had to settle for wrapping herself up in her cloak, the oiled surface of which had repelled most of the water and kept it partially dry.

Eibhlin looked around again. “So this… this is the Fae Realm?” she asked. “Not at all what I had expected.”

“Most of the Fae does not look like this,” said Mel. “This… well, I suppose we should be grateful. Brother Callum appears to have a good intuition; this is Arianrhod’s realm. Most likely, that tree we travelled through is a door leading right to the Witch’s house, but we must have gotten pulled off course. Instead of landing on her doorstep, we are lost in her swamp.”

Pulling her cloak closer, Eibhlin said, “It’s really dark.”

“Dark? Oh, the dark is hardly the swamp’s fault. It is this dark because it is day. Now, now, no interruptions, please, Milady. Yes, it is day. Ever since the Moon rebelled, night has reigned in the Fae, and for her aid to the Moon, the Witch was given her name in your tongue, Arianrhod, the ‘Silver Wheel.’ This swamp, too, is the Witch’s doing. Black magic. Even if she were not known for it, the trees speak of it. See how black and brittle their bark is? Sick. Diseased. Poisoned by the black arts. See that one over there that looks to have ink dripping from its branches? That is a Tensilkir, the very kind through which we just traveled, only the one at the monastery is healthy, overflowing with health, even, while that one… Milady, it has been centuries since I have seen trees this corrupt.”

Another shiver traveled Eibhlin’s spine as Mel went silent. She grasped the keys in her hands and pulled them to her forehead, holding their light close. She shut her eyes so that all she could see behind her eyelids was their glow. With her vision sealed, she couldn’t see the cage of trees trying to suffocate her. But she could still feel them. Something in the air chilled her lungs, sent fear pulsing through her heart.

“Mel,” she whispered, “I’m scared.”

“As am I, Milady.”

“Can you play me a song?”

“Milady, I believe I have mentioned before that, as skilled and noble an enchanted tool I may be, I cannot play myself. Try as I might, I cannot make even passable music without a player. No. I cannot play myself. Furthermore… Milady, I… I can tell stories, but… but, oh shame, I cannot hold a note.”

“You’re a tone-deaf instrument?” Eibhlin said, almost with a laugh.

“Milady, please, it is simply the state of things. Whether by accident or a joke or to keep me humble, it is how my maker made me. Rarely has it caused trouble, so I have learned to accept it, but now… now I cannot do as you request, which is far more painful than the crack and scrapes from the cave. However, if you want, I could tell you what to play. Perhaps it will not bring as much comfort as listening to someone else, but I promise it shall give some. Oh, and please be gentle, Milady. The time lost on the fairy road sped the process along, but I am not yet fully healed,” said Mel.

With a nod, Eibhlin took up the instrument and began to play. Much as with her first attempts—how long ago those now seemed!—the kithara guided her fingers. Notes drifted through the breezeless air, and for a moment, she let those solitary sounds drown her. Just as Mel said, it did not do much to comfort her. Even though the crack in Mel’s body had shrunk considerably, the notes sounded strange, and she dared not play anything complicated for fear of further damage. But even that little bit of comfort gave her a little more courage. Not much, but enough.