Idris departed three days later, with no fanfare. He took a small carriage and a trunk of belongings, and he left before sunrise. Willard and Lila drove the horses up front. The plan was to swap the horses daily to reach the Crescent Mountains within the week and not to stop for anything. Nobody had asked Idris what the catalyst for this sudden trip was, but this was mostly because he refused to speak to anyone about why he was in such a foul mood. He felt disrespected, mostly, and talked-down-to, and he did this not for his health but because his queen had demanded it. He did not know what it would fix, but he hoped by leaving, he could at least appease her.

They had not been gone thirty minutes when the carriage stopped and there was talking outside. Idris looked up from his book, frowning.

“Lila?” he called.

She opened the door. “Sir, it’s… Lady Riette, sir.”

He blinked, confused. “What is she doing here?”

“She said she wants to accompany us. For safety.” Lila chewed her lip. “Her family is from the Crescent Mountains, you know. It might be wise to have a guide.”

Idris sighed, tried to think of the kindest way to send her back to the palace.

“I told her she’d be bored,” Lila offered, “but she won’t take no for an answer. Should we clear a space for her to sit in the carriage?”

“That… is probably the gentlemanly thing to do, Lila, yes,” he said, defeated. “Thank you.”

“Maybe some company will be good, sir,” she offered as she shifted his piles of books.

“Maybe.” He sat back. “Maybe the Queen is spying on me.”

Lila said nothing, but she finished her tidying and turned to call Riette in.

“Sir Idris,” said Riette, settling down, “had I known you were going to my homeland, I would have offered to join you days ago.”

She was in her soldier’s garb, today, but undiminished by the change. Idris gave her a small, pained smile.

“I did think the trip would be quite dull for any companions, good lady.”

“Do you know anything about the Crescentlands?” she said. When Idris hesitated, she grinned. “An odd holiday, to a place you know nothing about.”

“It was… suggested to me,” he said, and an air of dawning comprehension spread across Riette’s face.

“I see.”

“It is not too late for you to leave the carriage. Breakfast at the palace today is going to be divine, judging by the smells from the kitchen as we passed.” He put his book down. “Do you not have duties to attend to at the palace?”

“Not so many. I think it is good, noble work to protect the Court Necromancer on the road, don’t you?” she said. “Besides, Master Willard will start to chafe on you within the day, I guarantee it.”

This time, Idris laughed. “Well… if you insist.”

“I know a lovely villa that is secluded and has wonderful views. You will not regret allowing me along for the ride,” she beamed. Interested, she studied the piles of books. “I remember. Travel is… not your favourite. Please, do not refrain from studying on my account. I will be here if you want conversational company. Otherwise, you do whatever you like.”

The carriage journey itself was tolerable for the most part. During the day, Riette accompanied Idris in the box, either sleeping or pointing out geographical features to him through the window, and he studied and napped and rubbed medication on his leg. At night, Willard and Lila came into the carriage and slept while Riette drove.

On the sixth day, Riette opened the door and left it open, and a marble of chilly yet delightfully warm air rushed in. Willard snored slightly softer and dug his head further against the seat back.

“Smell that?” she said. “Mountain air. Come see.”

Idris shifted from his chair and onto his crutches, and poked his head out.

Before him was a startling, confusing landscape, the likes of which he had never seen. They were on a misty road, surrounded by wetland ferns and bushes; the rocks in clusters around them were grey and sparkling slightly silver. Vines and creepers curled from graceful, low-branched trees. Ahead was a sheer, towering cliff, like a mouthful of silver teeth, blasting upwards as if a giant had punched the earth and the rock had been frozen in time.

“Bells,” Idris whispered. Riette smiled.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

He tilted his head to listen to the trickle of small waterfalls, the call of wetland birds.

“I had no idea places like this existed,” he said quietly.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Not far, now,” she said. “You should ride up front. The scenery is quite marvellous.”

She helped him up beside Lila, who smiled at him and chivvied the horses on, and he watched as the Crescentlands opened up to him.

There was foliage everywhere – moss, trees, flowers, bushes, grass – but in such a myriad of shades. He thought of Cressida’s paintbox, the buttery yellows and fiery oranges, the sparkling greens and hushed greys, and he wondered how all of those colours had made it here and exploded across his vision. The houses sat on stilts, perched on haphazard staircase runs that curled up mountainsides. People collected water straight from the miniature waterfalls that tumbled down the cliffs and bubbling springs.

Past the lowlands, the carriage climbed purpose-built blackstone roads.

“They say,” said Riette, as she rode her horse beside them, “that the mountain cats used to pull the nobles up the blackstone in litters in the winter. The first DeTrentavilles built their mansion right on the cusp of the Crescent Mountains.”

“Is that your ancestral home?” said Idris.

“It has been many years since I have needed to be there,” she said, “but yes. Crescent Crest is where my parents live. You cannot see it from here, and it is likely we will not see it at all.”

It got cooler, the further up they went, and the air became dense with mountain spray. Rock hawks swooped past them, clutching at poached eggs. Eventually, Idris could see the snow-caps of the Harransee, far in the distance. They were higher up than he had ever been in his whole life. The trees were a mere carpet below them.

The carriage entered a covered rock corridor, and the villas began to appear in secluded, quiet areas, some cut into the rock of the Crescent Mountains, some on the edge, looking down. The landlords called out to Riette jovially, inquired of her father and brothers.

“Is Lady Estray at the Silk House?” Riette asked, and they said she was. “Is it open for visitors?”

They continued on. The roads began to become private, again, surrounded by shimmering rock and lichen curtains. Then, in the centre of one of these bubble-like caves, Idris saw a house.

“Is that the Silk House?” he said.

“It is,” said Riette.

The Silk House was a wide, dark-wood creation made mostly of verandas and patios, of pools and rockeries. Shafts of sunlight hit the western edge, making the purple maple leaves glow with inviting warmth. The house perched on an island set into the river. Beyond that was the waterfall, loud and icy, dropping down into a series of rock basins that seemed to fall the whole way to the bottom of the Crescent Mountains. Mist poured from its drop. It was an impossible place, held together by pure fancy as far as Idris could tell.

By the time they reached the gate, it was prematurely dark due to the tall walls of the Crescent Mountains secluding the Silk House. Fireflies glowed. Willard shivered when he came out of the carriage.

“It is cold,” said Riette apologetically.

“Oh, no, milady,” he said. “I… the fae arias are… loud.”

“It is also cold,” said Lila, “and you have no boots.”

Idris sat, quiet on the driver’s step, taking it in. The air on his face was damp and freezing, mixed with natural steam; it smelled like sulphur and granite. Outside the bellow of the waterfall, it was rather quiet. Even the death aria seemed miles and miles away.

Riette greeted a young, lithe woman – Lady Estray – and introduced her to her companions. Lady Estray was eager to welcome them and gave the tour of the house. Dining room, with a view of the waterfall. Two elegant suites, each with their own private hot spring balconies outside and ice baths, should they be required. A reading room, and a steam room, and rooms for Willard and Lila to be comfortable and separate. The house wound and connected down manageable small flights of stairs, both inside and outside, and a selection of bridges. It was larger than it looked from the outside.

By the time Lila had brought Idris’s books and trunk through, he was still mesmerised on the outside veranda, watching the waterwings splashing in and out of the waterfall’s violent plunge.

“I have never seen a waterwing in real life,” he said, when she stood beside him. “Only pictures, in Uncle Haylan’s books. I always imagined they were all gone from New Borria. Are they not marvellous?”

“Tiny dragons, aren’t they?” said Lila, as one smashed back out of the waterfall curtain, shook out its wings and swung itself back around for another attempt, its tail flicking. “My, that one is hungry.”

“He has been struggling for a catch, actually.” Idris gestured to the small flutter of creatures, circling some way off. “His brothers and sisters already took their fill.”

“This place is incredible,” she said, looking up to the top curve of the crescent.

Idris kept his gaze on the waterwing, pounding his wings just to stay in flight, head trained on the cascade.

“I think he has it this time,” he said.

It shot into the water, and was gone for two seconds, three seconds, and then, suddenly, out he came, fish in mouth, and sped back to his siblings, who immediately started bothering him for scraps.

“Well,” said Lila, stepping back slightly, “I will leave you to your relaxation. If you need me, ring the bell.”

“I will. Thank you, Lila. And…” He was embarrassed to say it, but he knew it had to be said. “And thank you for coming. It… I know I have been…”

“Abrasive?” she offered, eyebrow raised.

“That. Yes.”

“It is quite all right. You have been through so much, these last few weeks. I cannot imagine.”

“I am going to rest here until I am kind enough to be your friend, again.”

She smiled. “Silly,” she said, punching his arm. “You’re my friend whether you are abrasive or not. Sir.”

He smiled, flicked her shoulder in return. “Go and enjoy the house, Lila.”

“You too.”

It was surprising, how much a change of scenery reorganised Idris’s brain. He sat in a wooden chaise longue, watching the little dragons flit in and out, and he realised how far from himself he had truly been. Being shut inside during his recovery was anathema to his desires. He loved the outside. He always had. He had been so focused on the setbacks that he had forgotten his purpose, everything his uncle had fought to keep him on this earth to do.

The Court Necromancer protected the kingdom. The Dead Walker armour was dangerous. He had duties to perform. He had a contract with House Naga and with the fae. Time was ticking and he was the only person who could stop it.

But for that, he had to be well. And he wanted to be well, so badly. He just did not know how to get well, how to purge the night terrors and the paranoia, how to stop feeling dread every morning when he woke. Being shaken from his palace routine had jarred him so thoroughly that he felt as if he were forever tumbling without a place to land, reaching into waterfalls to grasp for fish.

He wrote his first letter to Cressida from the veranda. He drew her a sketch of the waterwings, begged her forgiveness for his rude behaviour, and he promised he would come back healthy. He set it on the desk in the suite, sealed it with his black wax and clematis stamp, and left a note for Lila to have it sent, and then he lay on the low bed on his side, gazing out at the waterfall spray, watching the shadows shiver across the wooden floor.