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The light was growing stronger now, long, silvery-gold shafts that streamed through the mist. She blew out the candle and set the lantern down on the forest floor. She would carry it no farther, for the less encumbered she was, the better. She considered dropping Griffin’s pack, but the food was too necessary. With a sigh, she shouldered it once more and set off.
The dawn was nearly over, and with it, her hope of entering the OtherWorld. Ahead, the trees seemed to thin, and through the spindly trunks spears of golden light spiked through the branches, a more intense light than that which seemed to fall about her shoulders. Is it the OtherWorld up ahead? she wondered, as she shifted the sack and gripped the hilt of her dagger. The ground was firmer now, all vestiges of the stream gone, and the thinnest rim of the rising sun just visible above the line of trees. It was nearly morning, nearly day, but the thought of her father ensnared by sidhe magic or goblin claw spurred her on.
She ran faster through the white birch trees, running into the elusive light which seemed to beckon just outside her reach. The spindly leaves shuddered as she passed, until she tripped on a half-hidden root and sprawled flat on her stomach. The goblin head bounced up and down on the earth beside her, and the flap opened and the reek which spilled out made her gag. Bright sun burst above the trees and daylight poured over her. She shut her eyes and banged her fists on the ground in frustration. It was gone. Her chance to find her way into the OtherWorld was over. Sweat broke out on her forehead and hot tears welled up, spilling down her cheeks. She brought one hand to her face, sobbing as she lowered her head to the ground. Griffin was right. She must be mad to have even thought to attempt such a thing. But I won’t give up, she vowed. If the Duke’s men did not come today, she would try again tomorrow. She sniffed and noticed then that the moss beneath her cheek was soft and thick and smelled almost sweet. Soft and thick as flannel after many washings or the herb known as lamb’s ears, and she opened her eyes, pushing up on her elbows to stare down at it, for it was an emerald-green so intense she doubted she could’ve imagined such a color existed. Wondering, she stroked it, for it felt amazingly smooth against her fingertips, tips that suddenly appeared rough with scars and hard with calluses and very, very dirty. The scent that rose from the moss was fragrant, like sun-warmed earth in spring, and she closed her eyes and breathed in deep.
A sudden hiss made her head snap up.
“Horned Herne, maiden, what do you here?”
The deep voice startled her, so that she scrambled back in a half-crouch, warily straightening, wiping away her tears. The speaker, who stood in the shade of an oak with sprawling branches thick with bright golden leaves, looked unlike anyone she’d ever seen. He was broad of shoulder, the strong cords of his neck just visible above the high linen collar of the shirt he wore beneath a doublet that was made of something that looked even more velvety than the moss. It was nearly the color of the moss, too, and she saw as he emerged from the shadow of the tree that it exactly matched his eyes which slanted above his high, narrow cheekbones. A braid, thick as a woman’s, the color of a honeycomb with the sun gleaming through it, hung over his shoulder, like a silky rope that seemed to invite her to stroke it, to wrap it around her neck and arms, just to feel its texture glide across her skin. There was an intricate insignia embroidered on the shoulders and across the chest of his doublet, and she looked at his face, questions forming in her mind. His lips were plump as peaches, red as apples, and his eyes seemed to burn through her, as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. She lowered her eyes as she felt the color rise in her cheeks, noticing that his chest tapered to a narrow waist and hips, how his hose clung like a glove to his muscled thighs and calves. He held a bow, with arrow knocked and ready. She drew a deep breath, and would have answered, when he muttered what sounded like a curse, and beckoned. “To me. Now. Quickly.” He raised the bow and she nearly startled back, then realized he aimed at something just beyond her. “Now, maiden!”
She hastened to his side, grabbing for the sack and Griffin’s pack, a thousand questions bubbling on her lips. Beside him, she felt herself to be disgustingly dirty, covered in filth and soot and grime, and she wondered how he could stand the smell of her, but he only thrust her behind him, and stood, tensed and ready. The moment hung, suspended, and she wondered if he could hear the pounding of her heart.
The attack took them both by surprise. From the side, a hulking gray shape rushed out of the trees, in a cloud of stench and a rush of leather, a long snout and thick arms which held a giant broadsword of some metal that gleamed with a dark sheen.
But the bowman was quicker. Without flinching, he drew the bow, and the arrow sang across the narrow clearing, landing with a dull thud into the chest of the creature that snarled and lunged even as it collapsed. Nessa stared in horror at the thing that lay in a crumpled heap, its leathery tail still twitching.
Beside her, the sidhe reached over his shoulder for another arrow. “You are just over the border betwixt our worlds, maiden.” He spoke in a low whisper as he fitted the arrow into the bow. “I shall see you back across. It isn’t safe for you here. We stand too close to the realm of the Goblin King. The wards here must be weaker than we realized.”
Nessa gulped. It seemed impossible that such a slender stalk of ash was sufficient to have slain the goblin, but there it quivered in the monster’s chest. Swallowing hard, she wrapped her wet palm in the fabric of her tunic, and tried to stop shaking. “I—I don’t want to go back. I—I came to see the Queen. To show her this.” Without taking her eyes off the still creature in the center of the clearing, she held out the bag.
He frowned as if he wasn’t sure he’d understood her. “You’ve come deliberately into Faerie?” He lowered the bow after a quick glance around the clearing. “And what manner of gift is this?” He frowned at the rude leather, and Nessa felt the full measure of his scorn in his look.
“This isn’t a gift. It’s the—the head of one of—” She paused, gesturing with her chin in the direction of the goblin. “One of them. It was found dead on the lakeshore near my village.”
The color drained from his already pale face. “A lake in the Shadowlands? That cannot be.”
“This is what we found. Is it not kin to that?” She nodded in the direction of the dead creature, and held open the bag. The stench that rose from it was noxious and rank, and made the sidhe grimace in disgust. “And in the same hour that this was found, my father went missing.” She stared up at him with mute appeal. She felt the impact of his eyes meeting hers with nearly physical force. “I came to ask her for her help.”
“By the Hag, maiden, shut that away.” He waved one hand in front of his face. “What’s in that other sack?”
“Food.” She thought briefly of Griffin, how clumsy and crude he seemed beside the sidhe. He seemed a thousand leagues away. Was it only a few minutes ago that he had thrust it in her hands?
“I see. You even brought provisions—how wise. How long has your father been missing, you say?”
“Since the dinner hour last evening. He was going to the lake when he left the smithy.”
“And who killed the goblin?”
“We couldn’t tell. There was a long slash in its belly and half its guts had spilled out. But there was no sign of a weapon, or a battle, or my father.”
He rubbed his face and gazed around, forehead puckered. “There is a lake that lies that way, yonder, over the border of the Wastelands. You indeed are fortunate that if a lake so like it lies so close in Shadow, you stumbled over on this side, and not on that one.”
“What is shadow?” she asked, stabbed by a pinprick of the realization that the possibility which she refused to consider—of a world without Dougal—might, in fact, be far more than a possibility.
“The Shadowlands. The world of mortal men. And maids. You call it Brynhyvar.” He turned back to look at her, and their eyes met once more. Her heart stopped in her chest, as he turned the full force of his piercing green gaze on her. A flush was rising in his face and a small pulse beat a quickening tattoo in his neck just above the collar of his tunic. His skin had the texture of velvet and reminded her of the color of cream. A sweet, fresh scent emanated from him, a scent that reminded her of new fallen snow on pine boughs. “So this is the spell you mortals cast,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Like midsummer wine and winterweed.”
Despite a deepening sense of despair, she stared, fascinated by the shades of green swirling in his pupils. Every sense felt inflamed, swollen, and her head was beginning to spin in slow thick circles. She bit down hard on her lip and the taste of her own blood steadied her. She hefted the sack over her shoulder again. She would not lose sight of why she’d risked just this very thing. But she was terribly conscious that her clothes lay rough over her body, crudely made, as if cut by a child’s hand compared to his, and that there were wedges of grime beneath her fingernails, that her tangled mane of dark curls hung in lank, sweat-soaked strands about her dirt-and tear-streaked face. But the way he was looking at her made her feel as if he wanted to devour her. She coughed. “I’ve come to find my father.”
He shook his head, as if to clear away the effect of the attraction, and took a step back. “Maiden, if he fell out of Shadow and into the Wasteland beyond—the Goblin Wastes—” He broke off and sighed, as if reluctant to say more. “I cannot give you the help you seek or even take time now to explain the implications of the news you bring. I can, however, take you to one who quite possibly will help you, to the extent that he can, once he hears your story. For it would appear that if indeed a goblin has somehow fallen into the Shadowlands, even a dead goblin, then a greater magic than expected has failed, and the Queen herself must know of this. No one’s been expecting this—things could go very badly indeed for all of us if what you say is true. You must come with me.” He turned on his heel, still shaking his head, clearly loathe to continue, but anxious to go on.
“But, but wait—” She stumbled after him, hurrying to keep up in boots that suddenly seemed clumsy and stiff, ignoring every injunction every goodwife ever whispered at the end of every tale involving the sidhe. “What about the Silver Caul? Isn’t it supposed to keep the goblins out of Brynhyvar? Why isn’t it working? Is that the magic you mean has failed?”
He turned and made an impatient gesture. “Hurry, maiden. There will be time enough to explain it all to you in safety.” He stretched out his hand and she realized he was wearing gloves of leather so finely wrought they fitted with no more wrinkles than his own skin. “Come. I dare say no more here.”
Was this not what she’d come for? It was too late to have second thoughts now, even as the ferocity with which the goblin had attacked sparked the doubt that perhaps Griffin was right and that the OtherWorld was far too dangerous a place for her to be wandering around in alone.
With a quick nod, she let him guide her through the trees, his steps quick and sure, following a narrow trail which threaded through a thick forest of golden oaks and yellow beeches and blazing red maples. They had gone not even half a league when he stopped suddenly and pulled her close to him, one finger pressed hard against her mouth. Her senses exploded as she inhaled a scent at once so vital and pristine it felt as satisfying as food. No wonder mortals withered, rejecting coarser, more substantive nourishment. Without thinking, she leaned into him involuntarily. Their eyes met again and it felt as if her blood had turned to molten metal in her veins. She thought of Griffin’s clumsy kiss, and knew this as different as a ripple from a wave. But the sidhe closed his eyes and turned his head. “Maiden,” he said, in a whisper so low, she partly read his lips, “make no sound.” For one brief moment, they swayed closer, while she wondered idly in some remote corner of her brain, the possible source of his attraction to her, for she felt herself to be unbearably dirty and disheveled, her clothes and hair stinking of goblin. And then she heard the low grunt.
A cold wave of fear ran down her back as he lifted a horn off his shoulder and handed it to her, then drew the sword out of its scabbard. The brisk leafy-scented air was suddenly polluted by something that stank of the cesspits, a stink she recognized far too well. He drew a breath and swung his sword up, circling around her. “That track beneath the trees, maiden, will lead you to my fellows. Run hard, and blow the horn. They will be alerted to my need and take you to my Captain. Do you understand? You must run, quickly, maiden, upon my signal.” He pointed with the sword at the track, which threaded through the trees. “You must run. And you must not look back.” He moved around then, pushing her behind him. Suddenly he shouted, “Go!” as three goblins armed with battle-axes roared out of the trees.
Nessa charged down the trail, the sack with the head thumping against her rump. Thank the Great Mother that her father had seen fit to let her run with the boys of the village, and not confined her to kitchen and courtyard like the rest of the girls. Her boots felt weightless as she sped in the direction her rescuer had indicated and she lifted the horn to her lips, and blew. The horn sounded one pure clear note, and it echoed through the trees, loud and long. Immediately another horn blew in answer, then another, and she raised the horn once more, dropping Griffin’s pack off her arm. It slid to the ground, as she blew hard into the horn again. Sudden movement in the trees all around her made her knees quake, and she stumbled in midstride. Forgetting the injunction not to look back, she glanced fearfully over her shoulder, and in that moment, collided with a solid form that gripped her with steady arms. She twisted her face up and around and gasped to see a sidhe, every bit as beautiful as the other, staring down at her. “By Herne’s horns,” he said, in a voice as richly sweet as honeyed wine, even as he gestured his fellows to continue on in the direction from which Nessa had come, “a mortal maiden, as I live and breathe.”
3
It was always the light that Timias noticed first whenever he transversed the fluid borders between the Shadowlands and Faerie. Elusive and fey as the sidhe themselves, it shimmered through the trees, limning the edge of every leaf, pulsating with seductive radiance. More than one mortal had become a captive to the glamour cast by Faerie light, bound for mortal ages by fascination with its constantly shifting play of contrasts more acute than any ever cast by the bleaker sun of Shadow.
Now he strode through the thickest part of the stream, the bottom of his staff encrusted in mud, moving as quickly as his aged bones would allow. In mortal years, he was old beyond reckoning, but he, unlike most sidhe, bore the stamp of it upon his face. For Timias had dared to do what few would even contemplate—he had lived among the mortals, allowing the harsh mortal years to take their toll upon his face. His frame was bent, his face was lined like a walnut, the hair which hung in long silken strands around his shoulders was gray. He had thought, once, that the mortal woman for whom he’d given up one lifetime in the Shadowlands, though not a tenth of that in Faerie, had been worth the price he’d paid. Now he wasn’t so certain. For when he’d returned to Faerie, to claim his place among the Councilors to the Queen, he found that Vinaver, that foul abomination, the Queen’s twin, had managed to convince several among the lords and ladies of the Council that so long a sojourn as his in the Shadowlands represented some kind of technical resignation and a vocal few had even had the audacity to call for his removal.
In retrospect he should have expected such a move on Vinaver’s part. They had been instinctive enemies from the moment of her birth. Timias would never forget how the infant, born aware as all the sidhe, had hissed and spat directly into his face when the midwife had placed her into his unwilling arms. From that moment, Vinaver had worked to do all she could to discredit him with her sister, the Queen.
But Timias had a hereditary right to a seat upon the Council—the most honored right of all in Faerie—and no one had ever heard him surrender it. And so he kept his seat, but it was not as before. For he had been irrevocably changed by his extended time spent among the mortals, and in Faerie, change usually happened so gradually it was hardly discernible at all.
Each day in Faerie was as glorious as the day before it, a long progression of hours that flowed as sluggishly as a lazy river. Few things in the Shadowlands could compare to the stately pace of Faerie time, and nothing within Faerie could equal the breakneck speed with which life progressed in Shadow. It was that, as much as anything that had prompted Timias to stay in the Shadowlands so long. Mortals may not live as long as the sidhe, but their lives were lived more intensely. To one accustomed to the leisurely flow of Faerie time, it was as intoxicating as an inhalation of winter dream-weed.
But if his had been an unexpected return, it was also very timely, in Timias’s opinion. For it was immediately clear to him that Alemandine was not the Queen her mother, known as Gloriana the Great, she who’d vanquished the Goblin King and constructed the Silver Caul which kept the deadly silver out of Faerie, had been. Compared to Gloriana, Alemandine was only a pale shadow of the great Queen whose reign had ushered in this Golden Age that had endured for more than a thousand mortal years. Gloriana had birthed her triplets, Alemandine and Vinaver, and her half-mortal son Artimour, without so much as a hiccup in the great webs of power that held the goblin hordes at bay, and Timias was disgusted that it was whispered in some quarters of the Court that Vinaver, who in both coloring and temperament more closely resembled her mother, should have been Queen. Vinaver’s hair was like her mother’s fiery-copper, her eyes the dark green of mountain firs. Alemandine’s hair was white, her skin paler than milk, her eyes like chunks of river ice chipped from the shallows. It was as if Vinaver had somehow sucked up all the pigment out of her twin, as if she would’ve claimed all the life, all the energy for herself. He disliked her just for that.
But tradition, of course, was on Alemandine’s side and so she had taken the throne when the time came at last that Gloriana chose to go into the West. For the first hundred or so comparative mortal years of her reign, Alemandine ruled competently, if with a less sure and certain hand than her mother. The trouble began with her first attempts to call forth her own heir, when the physical strain of her pregnancy seemed greater than it should, and Timias believed that on this short visit to the Shadowlands, he had identified a potential cause that could, with some effort, be ameliorated. Unfortunately it was difficult to persuade the Council of anything, for Vinaver and her supporters managed to convince the others that he was merely the mad sidhe overcome by his addiction to human passion. It was an image he found difficult to combat. For in Faerie, appearances were everything, and the toll of mortal years had cost him more than he cared to admit.
But Timias, who had been present when the Silver Caul and moonstone globe were created and joined together, understood how closely the Caul and the globe bound the worlds, Shadow and Faerie, together so that events were reflected, repeated and echoed in each other. As long as both remained relatively stable, all was well, petty mortal squabblings over land or gold reflected in the trivial intrigues that permeated the Court. The realization that this relationship also created a largely unacknowledged potential for a spiral into disaster prompted Timias to cross the border into the Shadowlands once more.
What he found made him hasten back as quickly as he could. For the war now breaking out in Brynhyvar, the land lying closest to Faerie of all mortal lands, was one which threatened to spill over its borders and engulf the entire mortal world. The situation there only intensified the growing sense of dread he’d begun to feel when Alemandine’s pregnancy was first announced. For while an heir was long overdue, the Goblin King was waiting—waiting for the chance to overcome the bonds of sidhe magic and to overthrow the Queen while she was her most vulnerable. The time of her delivery would be perilous enough—he did not want to consider how full-scale war in Shadow would affect them all, if it coincided with an assault by the Goblin King. The forces of chaos were massing. They must prepare to fight the war on all fronts—including the Shadowlands, if necessary. He glanced up at the piercing blue sky and hurried as fast as he could, hoping that he could catch the Queen in a well-rested mood. For he had noticed that while the Queen might prefer to ignore him, she listened to him more carefully than she oft-times appeared, and that frequently she summoned him to a private audience to discuss the issues he raised. She had always, he wanted to think, regarded him as one of her more trusted Councilors, for he always told her the truth, no matter how unpleasant. It assuaged the remnants of his dignity, and reminded him of the time when he had, indeed, been Gloriana’s most trusted Councilor, her closest confidant, more intimate than her unremarkable Consort, whom she’d chosen for his ability to dance and to compose extemporaneous verse.
But even as he strode up the bank to the footpath which led to the wide gardens surrounding the Palace of the Faerie Queen, he knew what he intended to propose would sound too radical, too incomprehensible to be taken seriously. Blatant and obvious intervention into the affairs of the Shadowlands had never occurred, not even by Gloriana in the Goblin Wars when mortals and sidhe had struck an alliance. Without any precedent, he would have to hope the Queen was in a receptive mood.
He rounded a curve and the trees thinned, opening out onto a broad lawn that swept like a wide green carpet to the white walls of the palace gardens. He looked up as the sun rose above the trees, illuminating the blue and violet pennants which fluttered off the high white turrets. A thousand crystal windowpanes gleamed like rubies, reflecting the red sun as it rose, and on the highest turret, a white silk banner floated on the morning breeze, flashing the Queen’s crest, announcing to all who might have cared to inquire that the Queen of all Faerie was in residence within. She was about to leave soon, he knew, and that, too, was cause for concern. Although tradition demanded that each year she retire to her winter retreat on the southern shores, Timias feared the journey would tax her strength unduly. But Alemandine insisted, clinging to the hidebound traditions like a life rope.
He had a trump card to play, he thought, if he dared to bring it up. There was the lesson of the lost land of Lyonesse, which had once lain to the east of Faerie. It had disintegrated into nothingness one day, collapsing in and over and upon itself until it was no more. Now even the memories of its stories were fading, for it was said that the songs of Lyonesse were too painful to bear. But to imply that Faerie itself stood so close to the verge of ultimate collapse when he was not at all certain that such was actually the case might unduly alarm Alemandine and thus hasten, or even cause the calamity. He needed to convince the majority of the Council to heed his advice, not frighten the Queen, he decided. And to that end, he would seek to use every weapon at his disposal if necessary. But first he would seek to reason with Her Majesty.
So he hastened past the high hedges of tiny blue flowers which opened at his approach, scenting the air with delicate perfume that faded nearly immediately as he passed, trying to think of the correct approach. The lawn ended in a wide gravel path, which opened out onto a broad avenue that encircled a shimmering lake. Ancient willows hugged the shore, branches bending to the water. The sun was nearly above the trees, and the gold light sparkled on the surface. At this hour, both lake and avenue were deserted, but for the gremlin throwing handfuls of yellow meal to the black swans floating regally on the lake.
The gremlin turned his head as Timias passed, fixing him with a hostile stare. Timias met the gremlin’s eyes squarely. There were increasing reports of little incidents of rebellion among the gremlins, who, according to the Lorespinners, had been bred of goblin stock to serve the Faerie. The incidents were generally dismissed as the approach of the annual bout of collective madness that occurred among the entire gremlin population at Samhain. The other obvious threat seemed to elude everyone. When Timias had suggested to the Council, that the gremlins, as distant goblin kin, might find it in their best interests to side with the goblins in the coming conflict, and that being in a position to bring about utter ruin, they might be better banished to some well guarded spot until the child was born, he was laughed at openly throughout the Court. But Timias feared the time was coming when the courtiers wouldn’t be so amused. He would find that thought amusing himself if the consequences weren’t so dire. He picked up his pace, leaning heavily on his oak staff as his aged legs protested.
Once within the palace walls, he didn’t pause on his way through the marble corridors, not even stopping to visit his own apartments. He ignored the fantastic mosaics, the silken hangings, the intricate carvings which graced the palace at every turn, a blend of color, scent and texture so harmonious, mortals had been known to gape for days at just the walls. He strode beneath the gilded arches to the Council Chamber, where the guards straightened to attention and saluted as he approached. But at the open door he paused and peered in, ostensibly smoothing his travel-stained garments, assessing as he did so who was in attendance and their likely reaction to his news.
As he expected, the Queen was at her breakfast, attended by her Consort, Prince Hudibras, and those of her Councilors in residence, and to his dismay, he saw that Vinaver sat at the Queen’s right hand. Perhaps he’d do better to approach the Queen privately.
The idea that Vinaver, who he had always regarded as some mutant perversion of the magic that created the Caul, was able to enthrall her sister with her wiles sickened him. It had been terrible enough to discover that Gloriana’s womb housed two babes—Alemandine and Artimour—fathered separately by a sidhe and a mortal on the same night as the forging of the Caul. But Vinaver’s emergence was completely unexpected, completely unforeseen, an aberration of the natural order of Faerie Timias thought best disposed of. He’d suggested drowning the extra infant to the midwife who’d brought her out for his inspection. The infant’s eyes clashed with his almost audibly, and he felt the desperate hunger stretching off the wriggling scrap of red flesh like tentacles, seeking any source of nourishment. He shook off the infant’s rooting with disgust. “I say drown it,” he said again, shocking the midwife into silence as she turned and carried the infant back to her mother’s arms, to wait her turn for a tug at her mother’s copious teats. Both Vinaver and Artimour were offenses against nature, he’d argued then, arguing tradition, just as he’d argued it when he returned and fought for his Council seat.
He wondered what Vinaver might have been up to in his absence, for any differences between the Queen and her sister that he might have nurtured had obviously been resolved. Vinaver leaned forward with a proprietary hand to caress her sister’s forearm as it draped wearily over the cushioned rest of her high-backed chair. Vinaver’s back was to him, and Alemandine was turned away, engaged in choosing a muffin from the basket the serving gremlin offered. The creature wore cloth-of-gold, signifying the highest level of service. The hackles rose on the back of his neck. If only he could induce the Queen to at least banish them from her immediate service.
But it was the others who were gathered around the table that made him narrow his eyes. For with the sole exception of the Queen’s Consort, Hudibras, they were all Vinaver’s closest cronies. Across from Vinaver, on the opposite side of the table, Lord Berillian of the Western Reach sipped from his jewel-encrusted goblet, his attention focused on a dark-haired girl who sat beside him. Timias did not immediately recognize her, but something about her face made him pause, and he realized she was gowned in an old-fashioned gown of Gloriana’s era. He realized that they paid him no mind for they were all focused on her and the room was thick with some suppressed tension.
Several vacant seats apart, Lord Philomemnon of the Southern Archipelago, peeled an apple with overly deliberate intent, while at the opposite end, the Queen’s Consort, Hudibras, caught another tossed to him by his half brother, Gorlias.
Both Philomemnon and Berillian were Vinaver’s closest cronies and cohorts, the voices who’d championed her cause most vigorously in the early days of Alemandine’s reign, who’d shouted most loudly for his resignation.
The early-morning sun flooded through the wide windows which lined one wall of the long chamber, and glinted off the polished surface of the inlaid table that dominated the furnishings. Fragrant steam wreathed the air, redolent with the rich feast spread before them on golden serving plates.
The Queen looked uncomfortable and cross, her pale green gown spilling over the edges of her chair, her wings folded up behind her. The swell of her pregnancy was not immediately obvious, but her normally milky complexion was sallow, and dark smudges beneath her upturned eyes testified to restless nights. Her thick hair, white as snow, was bound up in braids, coiled neatly around her head, and topped by a platinum coronet set with pearls. He could retire, he thought, still unnoticed, and approach the Queen privately. But that would only delay the inevitable confrontation. Might as well throw the idea down before them like a gauntlet. He took a deep breath and single step across the threshold.
Only the unknown girl saw him, as she peered over the rim of the goblet she lifted to her mouth, for Philomemnon was absorbed in his apple, and Berillian was eyeing the girl’s rounded half-moons of bosom which were emphasized by the old-fashioned cut of her gown with unabashed interest. Timias cleared his throat, ready to speak, when red-faced Hudibras caught the apple he’d been throwing back and forth to his half brother Gorlias and tossed it instead to Timias. He raised his gold goblet just as Timias caught the apple in midair. “Well, well, my dear, see what the sunrise has ushered in today! Good Timias, welcome back from whatever grim hovel you’ve been hiding in.”
Sparing Hudibras no more than a quickly veiled glance of contempt, Timias threw the apple back. He strode immediately to the Queen, and dropped as gently as possible onto a knee swollen with the exertion of his haste. “My Queen.” His old man’s rasp cut like a discordant note through the melodious hail of mannered greetings which now rose around the table like a chorus. “I bring grave tidings—tidings which shall affect all of us unless we take heed now. For there is war…war in Shadow.”
Alemandine raised her long white neck and stared at him, a play of expression as complex as windblown clouds crossing her thin face. She shifted restlessly on the pale green cushions which lined her chair, and the look which settled upon her face was one of peevish irritability.
Timias steeled himself. If he could manage to at least make her listen long enough to call for him privately, he would count this breakfast a success. Her pregnancy had grown only slightly more pronounced, but it was clearly unbalancing the ornate wings she had cultivated so diligently, which now arced at least a foot above her head. In the morning light, the infinitesimal network of blue and red veins was visible through the translucent flesh. He wondered briefly why no one had discouraged Alemandine from allowing the wings to grow so high, for they clearly now contributed to her discomfort, and heard a little sniff of disapproval from Vinaver. He turned, ready to say more, when Hudibras let out a loud sigh of exasperation and threw another apple back to Gorlias. “So what of it, Timias? The mortals are always sparring back and forth amongst each other—half the time I don’t know why we ever bothered to protect them from the goblins, they kill each other with as much glee. Come, let us introduce you to a newcomer to our Court—this is the Lady Delphinea, the daughter of our Horse-mistress, Eponea of the High Mountains. Sit, break your fast with us and tell us of your travels. You must be starving after a week or more of naught but mortal slop.”
A few chuckles went around the table, and Timias could not help but spare a moment to peer more closely into the dainty, delicate face of the girl who sat poised on the edge of her seat. She was young, he could see that, barely ready to make an appearance at Court, and he wondered briefly why her mother, Eponea, had not accompanied her. But there was something about the chit’s face—something that tugged at his awareness, even as he turned away from the arch faces and concentrated only on the Queen. For all he cared, they might have been alone. He looked directly into Alemandine’s pale green eyes. “Events in the Shadowlands are moving toward a great war—a war which will sweep across borders and which will create repercussions that we are ill-equipped right now to bear. You must hear me out, Alemandine, I beg you.”
Not once in all her years on the throne had he ever so addressed her and the Queen stared at him, her pale eyes wide in her angular face. For the first time he saw the real fear hiding behind the petulance. Alemandine was afraid. She faced the greatest challenge of her life, and she was afraid. For a long moment he stared back, sympathy wreathing his ancient features. She desperately needed to assert control over the Council, but as long as they resisted acknowledging the breadth of the challenge that lay before them, she was too torn between the unfamiliar demands of her pregnancy and the constrictions of her fear. What would shock the rest of them out of their complacency? Must he invoke the forbidden name of Lyonesse in order to make them understand the enormity of what they faced?
But Lord Berillian was speaking, the movements of his bejeweled hands sending colored prisms across the Queen’s face as he plucked the grapes off the dark purple bunch lying across his plate. The fat locks of chestnut curls lay coiled on his shoulders, the precise shade of his intricately embroidered doublet. “Indeed,” he spoke between bites of grape. “So what if a new war has broken out in Shadow? What is war within Shadow to us? Have we not our own—” he paused and glanced at Alemandine, and then around the table with a look that seemed charged with some meaning Timias could not read “—our own delicate situation on our hands?”
Alemandine lifted one eyebrow, clearly expecting him to answer, and Timias turned to face the rest. At least she hadn’t had him escorted from the room. This was his chance. He forced himself to speak slowly, deliberately, hoping to make an impression with the weight of his words. “War in Shadow can only undermine our already precarious stability. The greater the unbalance there, the greater the unbalance here. And the greater the unbalance, the more we shall all feel the strain. The Caul does more than hold the silver at bay. The Caul binds our worlds together. What is felt in Shadow is felt here—what is felt here is felt in Shadow.”
Hudibras snorted. “You croak like a crow, Timias. Why not just go about in black and have done with it? We’ll all be warned of doom just by looking at you and you can spare us all your speeches.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” put in Delphinea suddenly, her pale cheeks flushing pink. “I think if Lord Timias speaks forcefully it is from his concern for the welfare of your Queen and child, and for the continuation of Faerie as we know it.”
Startled, Timias met her eyes and saw that they, unlike those of nearly every other sidhe he’d ever known in all his long life, were a clear and startling sapphire blue. She is not yet one of Vinaver’s, he thought suddenly, grateful for the unexpected support. She’s not in their pocket yet. And he wondered once again what had brought her to the Court, though maybe not so prematurely as he’d first supposed. “Thank you, my lady.” He bowed in Delphinea’s direction. “We all know that it is not a matter of if the Goblin King will attack, but when. It is in our best interests to ensure that there is peace in the Shadowlands while we face this inevitable foe.”
“Well, what do you think we can do about it?” Hudibras asked, his angular face flushing red. “Mortals are best left to decide the outcome of their squabbles for themselves. We of Faerie have never intervened.” At that Philomemnon looked at Hudibras and laughed openly and Vinaver rolled her long eyes to the ceiling. “Not officially, I mean.”
Timias turned back to the Queen, his expression changing from disgust to resolve. “Your Majesty. I have long studied the affairs of Shadow to understand the impact they make upon our world—”
“This we know, my lord.” Her voice was querulous, and she hid her impatience poorly. Timias sighed inwardly. He had hoped that Alemandine would be sufficiently rested first thing in the morning to willingly entertain such discussion, but now he saw that the demands of her pregnancy had intensified to the extent that such opportunities were becoming unpredictable, if they yet existed. They had better yet exist, he thought suddenly, once more overwhelmed with concern for this fragile creature who bore such a great weight. She was nothing like her mother, but she had ruled perfectly adequately for nearly one hundred and fifty mortal years. Why now did he compare her so unfavorably to her mother? Because, a small voice muttered deep in the back of his mind, she wields the power unevenly, and thus she is vulnerable in ways her mother never was.
“Why should we invest even the time to speak of it, when clearly it would divert us from our concerns?”
He leaned upon the table, his gray robes falling around him, the long locks of his gray hair hanging over his shoulders like a cloak. “Your Majesty. This is no diversion. The welfare, not just of your child, but of all of Faerie hangs in the balance. This is not merely one of their usual disputes, Your Majesty. You must believe me when I tell you that this is a most serious war—with the potential to engulf the whole of Shadow, not merely the country that lies nearest our borders, the one mortals call Brynhyvar.”
At that, Philomemnon sat forward, arching his own brow. “Then tell us, Timias, how is this war different?”
“The King of Brynhyvar is mad—there’s some talk it’s because of one of us, but I haven’t found anything to substantiate that, thank the Hag. It surfaced shortly after the young Prince died last winter. At any rate, his Queen is a foreigner, and her relatives see an opportunity to take over Brynhyvar. But the Duke of Gar has raised his standard against the King, and now, war not only overshadows Brynhyvar, but all its neighbors as well, even to the Farthest Reaches, for the web of blood ties, trade agreements, and strategic alliances stretches across the entire world.”
“And how, exactly, do you propose we intervene?”
“A decisive battle on Gar’s side would win the war before it had a chance to spread. But Gar’s forces are spread out, and the troops which the Queen has summoned from her native land are a professional army capable of decimating the current rebels, unless, you see, Gar calls in alliances from other countries, and thus the war will escalate.”
“Surely you are not proposing we send our own soldiers?” Berillian was incredulous.
“I am proposing we send Lord Artimour as an emissary to the Duke of Gar, along with perhaps one of our own hosts—”
The table actually shook as those around it exploded with guffaws. “Surely you jest, Timias,” put in Vinaver, leaning on her hand. Her mouth curved up in a languid smile, as though she tolerated the ranting of a dotard. “Since when have you ever had time for Artimour? And now, now that Finuviel, by the Queen’s grace, has seen fit to answer her call to assume command of the defenses of Faerie—why, Finuviel depends upon Artimour as he does upon no other—Artimour has become his most trusted second. Even now, Finuviel leads a hosting of our finest knights to the Western March, where Artimour holds the line. And to send such a force into Shadow is unheard of and I’m surprised, good Timias, to think you of all of us would even suggest such a thing. What are we of Faerie but our traditions?” Those were his own words, spoken in this very chamber, now flung back at him. The wings she had grown in deference to Alemandine’s fashion quivered.
Timias flushed as Alemandine raised her goblet. “Our brother is needed where he is. The border there grows more tenuous every day—is that not what the reports tell us, good Timias?”
“I do not doubt what the reports tell us, my lady. And I do not dispute that Artimour is a brave and worthy captain, and that his presence is a great help to Prince Finuviel on the border. But among the mortals, his father is revered and loved and stories of him are told around every hearth in every dwelling no matter how rude. Gar would listen, if we offered him enough forces to make the difference. I have every reason to believe he would accept our help if properly presented.”
“And you would risk our own—”
“There is no risk. We cannot be killed by mortal weapons—wounded perhaps, but as you well know, nothing short of total beheading will kill us. A quick victory will stabilize the Shadowlands. One battle, and the entire problem could be settled.”
“But there’s silver there, Timias. Our knights could be killed by that, or have you forgotten the stuff exists?” Hudibras shook his head.
“And what guarantee of victory is there, Timias? Forgive me, my old friend,” said Philomemnon, “and I do not hesitate to call you that, for though your years in the Shadowlands have aged you, long we have dwelt in the same region, you and I. I understand your concern, and I, unlike some others—” here, he paused and looked at Hudibras and Gorlias “—well appreciate the effect the Shadow-world has ever had on ours, much as many of us would prefer to deny it. But there’s no surety your strategy would work. For one thing, mortals are marvelously unpredictable, not to mention wholly illogical. One thing I’ve learned, in my admittedly limited experience of them—” and here he sighed and a bemused smile flitted across his face, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings “—is that the only possible way to predict what they are likely to do is to decide what I would do in a given situation and then assume they will do the opposite.” He inclined his head with a little flourish, and another chuckle, louder this time, perhaps even a bit forced, went around the table, and Timias shot each Councilor in turn an assessing look. There was an undercurrent he could not quite understand, but Philomemnon was continuing, “Better our energies remain concentrated here.”
To what purpose, wondered Timias, as his gaze fell on the back of Vinaver’s head, where her thick copper braids hung massed in jeweled caul. What mischief had the witch planned in his absence?
“And what’s in it for us, Timias?” put in Gorlias, interrupting Timias’s train of thought. “It’s not as if we could expect their help against the goblins—except as bait.” This time the laughter was longer.
Timias shook his head, suddenly weary with frustration. “Laugh at me if you must, Gorlias. I tell you all, if the war in Shadow expands across the entire mortal world, we will disappear—like the lost land of Lyonesse.” There. He’d said it. He straightened and folded his arms across his chest.
An awkward silence fell across the table while the courtiers exchanged shocked glances and Delphinea shifted uncomfortably in her seat. This time she avoided his eyes. Alemandine rubbed her temples as if her head ached. Vinaver snorted. “If this is all the tidings you bring my sister, Lord Timias, you might consider a stint on the perimeter, yourself. A few weeks and you might begin to understand what we face. If you hadn’t been off indulging yourself in Shadow, you’d have been here to hear Finuviel speak of the situation himself. We have not the troops to spare to such a dangerous distraction.” Her green eyes flashed in a manner so reminiscent of her mother that Timias took a step back. Vinaver raised her head and her wings quivered.
No one could accuse her of not being utterly loyal to her sister, thought Timias.
But now she was rising, bending like a copper lily over Alemandine, her skirts rustling with a soothing swish. “Come, sister, soon we’ll be away from all this. Allow me to make you a posset. ’Twill soothe your head and we’ll talk about what to pack.” Glaring in Timias’s direction, she rose, edging him aside with her skirts, drawing Alemandine to her feet. “You foolish, blind old man. Come, dear sister.” With gentle murmurs, she drew Alemandine from her chair, allowing the Queen’s head to droop against her shoulder, as she led the Queen away. The breeze raised by the trembling of their wings swirled past Timias’s cheek like a voiceless reproach.
“I hope you’re satisfied, Timias.” Hudibras bit savagely into the apple.
“I shall not be satisfied, my lord Consort, until everyone at this table, within this entire realm, understands the gravity of the situation we face.” He looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Our Queen is no Gloriana. We all know it—Alemandine herself knows it. She needs more from us than a nod of approval. Alemandine needs our help, our guidance—”
“Diverting our own forces to the Shadowlands when we know we will need them here is scarcely the way to do it, Timias.” Philomemnon folded his arms over his chest and shook his head.
Timias tightened his grip on his staff, drawing himself up, wondering how to impress upon them the reality of the threat. But then he caught the Lady Delphinea’s look once more. Her expression did not change, but she raised one eyebrow infinitesimally. He swallowed the words, and shrugged. Something about her appearance nagged at his awareness. Perhaps an opportunity to speak to her privately might be arranged. If he could persuade her, there might be a way Philomemnon and Berillian could be brought to his side. And there were others. A majority of the Council would outweigh the voices of Vinaver, Hudibras and Gorlias and help convince the Queen he was right. Better to let it go now. So he spread his hands and only said, “Think on it. But think not long. Events in Shadow proceed apace. Already it may be affecting Alemandine. If we linger too long, our decision may well be made for us. Remember Lyonesse.” He bowed to each of them, turned on his heel, and walked slowly from the room, leaving them sitting in a flood of silent light, gasping audibly that he should have once again invoked the forbidden name.
The news that a mortal maiden, carrying a goblin’s head in a sack, had arrived at the outpost awakened Artimour and brought him blinking, upright, barely two hours after his head had first touched the pillow just before dawn. “A goblin’s head?” he repeated, as Dariel, his body squire, moved about the room, shaking out fresh underlinen, opening a shutter to let in enough light for him to dress. “Are you sure it’s a goblin’s head?”
“There’s no mistake about that, my lord. I was in the kitchens when they brought her in—you could smell it coming half a league off.”
“And how’d she find her way here?” Artimour dragged himself out of bed, and splashed cold water from the pitcher on the table into a basin and onto his face. He looked up to take the towel Dariel proffered.
“The scouting party you sent out after that last raid, my lord. They found her just as she crossed over the border.”
“They’ve all come back?”
