The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  “You will sit in the throne, Your Grace?” Tom asked.

  Regent nodded. “It’s ghoulish, I know. But we must remind the elfs who they are dealing with. Whatever it is they want, they must remember they are speaking to the Keepers of the Throne.”

  Tom said nothing. Even he knew that most people saw the people of the Heel not as caretakers, but as fanatics. But he could not say that. So he could say nothing. He just smiled. When you could not lie, silence was an ally.

  “So, will you sit?”

  Most courtiers would demur, say that they were fine and would be pleased to stand. But Tom’s back ached. And he could not lie. So he said, “Yes, please, Your Grace.”

  Regent was not annoyed by the honesty. He nodded and hundreds of eyes watched Tom seat himself. He felt awkward, even more so when he saw Glastyn bow to him. The lady he was with giggled. He’d granted her the Second Sight; after all, he could not seduce her if she could not see him. Tom felt sorry for her, though he could not make out who she was. Knowing Glastyn, she already had a husband, someone important in the court.

  Regent did not sit. “When will they be announced?” Tom asked.

  “In a few minutes,” Regent replied. He stroked his beard, smoothing it. “I’m making them wait.”

  That seemed petty. “Won’t that anger them?”

  “Perhaps.” Regent smiled. He had the smile of a younger man, one who took pleasure in tugging the noses of others. “But that might give me the advantage.”

  Tom nodded. Politics. He had no stomach for it. Even in Faerie he had been careful to be a neutral party, never picking one side over another. Unless you counted Maev. But that was different.

  “What do you think they want, Tom?” Regent asked. “Any foresight of their intentions?”

  He’d been asked that a dozen times. He shook his head yet again. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he said. “I still haven’t seen anything.”

  Regent was disappointed and made no effort to hide it. “No matter,” he lied.

  The duke was nervous, Tom realised. It made sense. Three generations of his family had waged war against the Eastern Angles, though in truth it was a war in name only. Fighting on the border was rare. Most of the troops spent their time glaring at each other over the border. But now the Easterners were knocking on Regent’s door and requesting audience. Most of the Heel had never even seen an Easterner. There was an air of excitement in the room. But Regent seemed uncertain.

  “Perhaps they seek a truce,” Tom suggested. “Why else travel all this way?”

  “Why else?” Regent stared at the great doors ahead. Tom’s words had only made his concern worse. He gave up. He’d forgotten how to talk to people a long time ago.

  Glastyn and his prey were dancing. A few people were throwing her odd looks; to their eyes, she was dancing with herself. Courtiers muttered that the temporary madness that was striking the ladies of late was a sickness sent by the Western elfs. They gave her a wide berth.

  “Who were you talking to?” Regent asked.

  “A fay called Glastyn,” Tom replied.

  “Ah.” Unlike many in the court, Regent believed the tales told about Tom. He had never questioned his foresight, his inability to lie, nor his Second Sight. “He is often here, is he not?”

  A kingly trait, to remember so many names. “He is, Your Grace. He keeps me company.”

  Regent nodded. He knew that Tom was often lonely. But Tom knew that, while the man did what he could, he put the needs of the Heel over the needs of Thomas Rymour. He would not send Tom back to that little hut on the hill while there were wolves at the Heel’s doors. Maybe he would never send him back.

  “Let’s not wait any longer,” Regent said. He waved at a servant. “Send them in,” he roared, loud enough for all to hear.

  The music stopped and the crowd parted, leaving a path from door to dais. Everyone leaned forward to get a look at the foreigners.

  There was a collective gasp as the doors opened. Even Tom was impressed.

  It was the dress he saw first. Four elfs, tall and all in black, robed from head to foot. These robes were decorated in white with images of bones, femurs and fibulas drawing borders whilst entire hands sat in corners. Ribs were stitched over some chests, others featured patterns of flowers done in bone or miniature battle scenes fought by skeletons. This was topped off by the masks, skulls that looked eerily real. They were at complete odds to the assembled court. No frivolity, no cheer. They were sombre and serious, the spirit of death itself.

  They walked towards the dais. No, they glided, robes sweeping behind them and their movements full of a fluid grace. As if they were stalking Regent. Tom half-expected them to draw weapons and he was surprised how nervous he was by the time they stopped.

  They knelt. No surprise assassination.

  Silence filled the hall.

  The herald had been so astonished by the elfs he had forgotten to announce them. He cleared his throat and stammered, “Lord Neirin Tarian, Shield of the Eastern Angles, Warden of the Faith, Fourth of His Name, Emperor of His Other Realms and Territories, Bearer of the Blood of Angau.” It would have been funny in any other circumstance. But no-one laughed. They were too awestruck. “Lord Neirin, I present you to the Duke of the Realm, Regent for Emyr, Keeper of the Throne and Ruler in His Name.”

  “Thank you, herald.” Regent spoke with an amused yet pointed tone; the man’s neglected duties had been noticed. The herald bowed, embarrassed.

  Regent turned his attention to the elfs. “Greetings to you and yours, Lord Neirin. We are honoured by your presence here.”

  “My thanks, Duke Regent.” The voice was muffled by the mask, but it spoke the human tongue flawlessly. “You have been most hospitable.” He rose without waiting for permission and his fellows rose with him.

  Regent did not acknowledge the affront. “We have firm hopes that the animosities of the past can be finally laid to rest.”

  “As have I.” Neirin was swift, blunt. “But I am here on a greater purpose, Your Grace.”

  “Oh?” Regent’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The skull nodded. The eyes that looked out through the sockets were bright and eager. “I am here to save all of Tir.” It felt rehearsed. Planned. Neirin lifted an arm and pointed a finger at Tom. “And I need him to do it.”

  Only Tom and a drunken lady of the court heard Glastyn say, “Are you curious now, Thomas Rymour?”

  Chapter 2

  So. After all the gossip and the fanfare, the elfs were just another party of foreigners after a few foresights.

  But Regent’s composure slipped. “This is a feast, master elf,” he said. “Given in your honour. This is not the time nor the place to discuss such matters.”

  Neirin lowered his arm. “Such matters are what brings me here,” he replied, his voice cool. “Not warm wine or stringy game.”

  Regent’s eyes blazed. “When you insult me, you insult my people, Lord Neirin,” he said. Then he stood. “Long have our people been at war and fond was my hope that this could be ended with your arrival. But I will not suffer disrespect to this realm.”

  “A great evil is spreading over this land, Duke Regent. Time is of the essence.” But before Neirin could say more, another elf said something in his ear. Neirin’s shoulders drooped and he bowed his head. “Forgive me, Your Grace. Our road was long and I am tired. My remarks were unjust. We will gladly partake of this fine feast.”

  Regent was proud. His people more so. It would take more than that to mend the bridges. “Eat,” he said. “Drink. We will talk more.”

  Neirin bowed further and Regent flicked a hand at the musicians. “Play on,” he told them, then beckoned Tom to follow him. They walked off the dais as the music started up, stepping behind a blue curtain and into a corridor that led away to Regent’s dressing room.

  “That was a disaster,” Regent said once the door was shut. He sat in the only chair, a comfortable affair in the middle of a small,
round room lined with shelves and stools. There were no clothes; they were stored else-where. Regent had this whole room just for getting dressed.

  “It could have gone better,” Tom agreed. Next to the chair was a small table on which sat a decanter of wine. He poured a glass; he knew enough about courtly behaviour to do that.

  “Thank you,” Regent said. “Help yourself.”

  Tom poured some for himself and sipped. It was sweet and fruity and not to his taste.

  “Why does Neirin want you?” Regent slouched in his seat and rubbed his eyes.

  “I don’t know, Your Grace.”

  “I know you don’t know. Take a guess.”

  Careful. Don’t anger him. “I imagine it’s the same reason you wanted me,” he said. “For my foresight.”

  “Yes,” he said. “He wants your foresight. Why?”

  “Why did you want it?”

  Regent’s look was sharp. “Because I have elfs at my borders, Tom,” he snapped. “We have been at war with the Angles for decades. Now I have the Western King-dom at my back. I need all the counsel I can get. Not questions.”

  Tom bowed his head. The poor man was beleaguered. If Tom had to be here, he might as well try to help. “Sorry, Your Grace.”

  Regent sighed. “My apologies,” he said. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

  The room was silent for a moment. Tom wasn’t sure what to say. Counsel. Give him what he wants. “If Neirin isn’t here for peace then perhaps he is here for the Western Kingdom.”

  “To help them?”

  “Or to hinder them.” Phrase this carefully too. “He probably doesn’t want them on his border either.”

  “Hmm.” Regent settled into thought, gazing into the distance. “Elf warring against elf?”

  Tom let him think. Regent had a better mind for this sort of thing. Instead he thought of the castle library and which texts might help him find a path to Faerie. Emyr had travelled there when Malvis had won his wife in a game of chess. Perhaps he could find the path he took.

  Then the room disappeared and he saw a hooded woman say to him, “They say you find a thing with your feet, not your eyes.”

  The foresight faded and he saw the dressing room again.

  “Tell me, Tom,” Regent was saying. “Would you go? If you could?”

  The question caught Tom off-guard. He opened his mouth to speak but what was the safe answer? He would say no. Of course he didn’t want to go. He might feel like a fish out of water in Cairnagan but how much worse would he feel travelling with a party of elfs? And where did they want to take him? What did they want from him? It was too unknown. Better the dragon you knew.

  But how would Regent react to that truth? He could see the duke thinking behind that stern mask. Was he hoping to give Tom to the elfs, in exchange for promises or truces? How would he react if Tom’s answer angered him?

  Better to say nothing.

  “You were going to say yes, weren’t you?” That was the thing with silence: people filled it with that they expected to hear. “I can’t blame you. There’s a whole world out there and I’ve cooped you up in this castle like a prisoner.”

  Cairnagan did feel like a prison sometimes. But so did the whole of Tir. What difference did it make which cell he was in?

  Regent sighed. “I have a great deal of respect for you, Tom,” he said. “I want you to know that. I have tried to accord you every honour I can and make you as comfortable as possible.”

  “And I am grateful for your efforts.” Even if they didn’t work.

  Regent nodded. It was what he needed to hear. “But I cannot let you go. I would be a fool to trade you away for baubles and trinkets. I would be a fool to give you to a duplicitous elf.”

  Tom tried not to be offended that Regent spoke about him like an object to be bartered. “I understand, Your Grace. Your duchy has many foes. It would be imprudent to weaken it in any way.”

  “I’m glad you understand.” It seemed to lift a weight from Regent’s shoulders and Tom felt guilty. The fancy clothes, the positions of honour, even the failed attempt at mead; he should appreciate them more. This was a good man. He deserved Tom’s respect and his loyalty.

  “Go back to the feast, Tom.” Regent waved a hand. “Thank you for your time.”

  Tom bowed and put down his glass. He walked to the door but, when he glanced back, Regent was staring into his wine as if the glass was full of troubles.

  “What will you do, Your Grace?” he asked.

  “Think,” he said. “Prepare. Neirin wants something. And a man, dwarf or elf who wants something enough can be persuaded to give up something grand for it.”

  Tom left the duke with his thoughts.

  Glastyn was busy with his seduction and Tom didn’t want to interrupt. So he looked over the tables of food, picking at pheasant and rabbit. He had some of the potato, too. When he was a boy the potato was an expensive import. Since then it seemed to have spread all over Tir; there was no escaping it. There were a dozen varieties on the table and he was trying a herb-basted variety when a shadow fell across him.

  “Thomas Rymour of the Second Sight.” Lord Neirin spoke with a soft and reverential tone. Nevertheless, Tom couldn’t help but quail whilst staring up into that death mask. “I am Lord Neirin Tarian, Shield of the Eastern Angles.”

  Tom managed to fight a stammer. “It is an honour,” he said. He extended a hand and Neirin looked at it. Tom noticed it was shaking so he lowered it.

  “The honour is mine, Lord Rymour.”

  “I have no title, Lord Neirin.”

  “Nor do you need one.” Neirin lifted his sleeve to bare the inside of one wrist. Tom didn’t understand the gesture. “The Eastern Angles is at your service.”

  What in Tir did you say to that? “Thank you.” The eyes within the sockets narrowed. That must have been wrong somehow. “There has been a lot of excitement since news of your coming reached us,” Tom said.

  “I do not doubt it.” A smile reached the elf’s eyes. “Tell me, what have they been saying?”

  “They hope very much for peace.”

  Neirin stepped closer. He smelt of exotic perfumes and spices. “And would they believe us if we declared such a thing?”

  No. They would want to. But they would be waiting for the dagger in the dark. “I could not speak to the thoughts of so many people.”

  “If I pressed you for an answer?” Neirin asked. “For your best guess?”

  “I would beg you not to do such a thing.” An honest answer could scupper Regent’s hopes of peace.

  “Because you cannot lie?”

  A ‘yes’ would only tell Neirin his people were not trusted. A ‘no’ would be a lie and so was not an option. Silence. Silence was the only alternative.

  It seemed to satisfy Neirin. “Interesting.” He waved a hand and an elf stepped to his side. “I would speak to you, Thomas Rymour of the Second Sight. In private.”

  Regent wouldn’t like that. “Would you not prefer an audience with the duke?”

  Neirin flicked a hand in the air. “We sought you out, Master Rymour. You happen to be here, and so here we are. There are things we must discuss.”

  Tom’s first thought was to escape. He wasn’t practiced in courtly affairs and was liable to offend. He needed to get away. Back to Regent, to tell him what Neirin had said.

  Of course, Regent might appreciate a fuller report. Neirin might tell Tom something he wouldn’t share with Regent.

  “Go with him.”

  Tom jumped and turned. Glastyn was browsing the food with his almost-conquest, who clung to his arm and giggled like a small girl. She looked at the elfs with awe but at Glastyn with adulation.

  “Find out what he wants. It will be entertaining.” Glastyn smiled and fed the lady a small pastry.

  “I shouldn’t,” she said. “This dress is tight enough.”

  “What is life for if not living?” Glastyn said. “Not that I can remember, of course.”

  The woman gigg
led. “You are naughty, Master Glastyn.”

  “Aren’t I?” He ushered her away but turned back to Tom. “Go with him.”

  Tom nodded and watched them go. Then the great hall faded from his sight. Instead he saw Neirin standing over a table, face bare and looking over a model of Tir. He ran his hands over the model, the mountains and valleys, touching with one finger the castle in which they stood.

  “I hear Idris has something similar in Cairnagwyn,” Neirin said.

  “Does he?”

  “Yes.” Neirin turned his gaze on a tower rising out of the Western Kingdom. “His conqueror’s map.”

  The foresight faded and he blinked. The sights and smells and sounds of the great hall had returned.

  “Master Rymour?” Neirin said. “Are you well?”

  Regent’s map room. That was what he had seen.

  “Well enough, my lord.” Tom turned back to the elf. “Please, come this way.”

  He led them out the hall and into the corridors of Cairnagan. Even out here it was crowded, revellers and guests spilling into quieter spaces. They parted for Tom and, when they saw the elfs behind him, they parted even more. Tom tried to ignore their stares.

  After four months he knew the castle only well enough to get from certain places to other certain places. From the hall he could find the stables, the courtyard, one of the smaller kitchens, his own rooms, and Regent’s audience chamber. And the map room. That’s what he had foreseen and so that must be where he would take them. He just hoped Regent wouldn’t be angry.

  They climbed stairs in silence, across a tower to the map room. The heavy wooden door was unlocked and he held it open for the elfs before following them inside.

  “Are these your rooms?” the other elf asked. She had a deep, kind voice and her eyes were a startling blue. She was doing her best to avoid being intimidating. Tom appreciated the gesture.