The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  Was the same. “But you’re not now.”

  He sighed. It carried the weariness of centuries. “No. Not now.”

  “What happened?”

  “What happened was I looked around the room. I saw dozens of dukes who couldn’t reach a decision without a king to tell them what that decision ought to be. I saw dozens of soldiers who couldn’t be kept from the front lines any longer. And I saw soft chairs around a big table covered in pheasant and fruit and wine, while thousands of people sat in ruined homes with nothing but hunger on their broken tables.

  “So I took the crown.”

  Tom tried to imagine it. Tried to see himself doing the same thing, putting aside his own dreams for people he’d never met. “I’m not sure I could do the same.”

  “I wasn’t either,” Emyr said. “You’ll be surprised what you can do when you have to do it.”

  But Tom had been waiting four years to come back to Faerie. He couldn’t give up his dream. The people didn’t need him anyway. They needed Neirin, who wanted the glory, to save Tir and be the hero.

  “You tell yourself that another will do it,” Emyr said, as if reading Tom’s thoughts. “You deserve to be left to your own life. You’ve paid your dues. Someone else will take the burden, someone who wants it. But they will be doing it for all the wrong reasons. And you, in not wanting to do it, will do it for the right reasons. Because as long as you’re stuck with your burden, you may as well do your best with it.”

  Tom sighed. Emyr had always been able to do this. He could see right through Tom, say just the right thing to change his mind. When Maev had made him take his oath of silence, she had warned him that breaking it would mean he’d have to stay in Faerie forever. And when his seven years were up, and she was about to send him back to Tir, he was scared. He’d been thinking about breaking that oath and securing his doom. But he’d visited Emyr. And somehow the king had changed his mind. So Tom had stayed silent. He wished he hadn’t. He wouldn’t have become embroiled in this war. He wouldn’t have been asked to do this. He wouldn’t have hurt Katharine.

  Perhaps Emyr had wished Cei hadn’t tried to make him a king. Perhaps he’d wanted to say no, to walk away and pursue his own selfish dreams. But he didn’t. He sacrificed those dreams on the altar of a crown. He thought of Regent, telling him he had to sacrifice himself for a greater good. He’d spurned Regent for that. Perhaps he’d been wrong.

  “I need to think.”

  “Thank you for listening, son.” Emyr offered him a smile and Tom smiled back.

  “Of course, my king.”

  Emyr waved him away. “I need subjects like another hole in my gut. Be a friend, Tom, if you would be anything.”

  A friend to Emyr. Who could claim that? And who could then refuse him? “Goodbye, my friend.”

  He walked back to the party because he had to say something to Maev. He wasn’t sure what it would be, but he had to tell her he would stay or he would go. Hopefully he would decide before he saw her and hopefully it would be the right decision. Everything seemed to be telling him to go: Emyr’s encouragement, Midhir’s mockery, Katharine’s harsh words. But Maev wanted him to stay, didn’t she? And so did he. Why should he deny himself that? Everything he wanted was within his reach. Who would be crazy enough to throw that all away?

  A dying man trapped in Faerie, that’s who.

  Calgraef was almost over. The fay had all changed. Some looked much the same; it was just their persona that were different. Other fay were entirely transformed. Gentle Annis, for instance, was no longer the beautiful woman with seaweed hair and webbed hands and feet. In her place was Black Annis, an ugly hag with dead blue skin and iron nails. She scowled at Tom as he walked past and Tom did not make eye contact. Although she preferred lambs and children, she’d been known to make an exception.

  He wasn’t surprised to see the others had found each other. They stood in a tight group, unsettled by the changes around them. The previously joyful atmosphere had changed. The laughter was harsher, the jokes grimmer, the banter had descended into brawls. It was disturbing to see the first few times.

  “Where have you been, Thomas Rymour?” Neirin was even haughtier than usual. Probably hiding his discomfort. “It was hardly good manners of you to abandon us in an unknown realm.”

  Katharine refused to look at him. Her eyes were red and puffy. He’d thought tears would be easier than anger. But the guilt made him feel sick.

  “I had things I needed to do.” He didn’t add an honorific even when Neirin’s eye twitched. He was tired of it all. “You were safe as long as you did as I told you.”

  “It has not always felt like it,” said Siomi. “These fay are unusual creatures.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Brega spat. She looked like she wanted to say more, but there was fear in her eyes. That surprised Tom more than anything.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

  “Are you well?” Draig asked, face filled with concern.

  “I am,” said Tom. Physically. His mind was a tumble of thoughts that he couldn’t explain right now.

  The big elf offered a smile and turned to his fellows who were talking amongst themselves.

  “I’m glad you’re back, Tom,” said Six. “Things got rather strange after you disappeared.”

  The giant effigy of Cei was on fire. Most of it was burnt already, but dozens of little fires still blazed on, smoke billowing into the sky. Tom smiled. “Calgraef gets pretty wild here.”

  “You’re telling me,” he said. “I’ve decided any study of the fay is best done at a distance.”

  Tom laughed. “A wise decision, master elf.”

  Six stepped closer. “Katharine is upset,” he murmured. “I couldn’t cheer her up.”

  Tom shook his head. “Thank you for trying, but your efforts will have a better chance than mine.”

  “Ah.” Six nodded. “Lover’s tiff?”

  Tom glared at him. “No.”

  The elf shrugged. “What would Oen do?” His voice was low, pious. It was at odds with the crude jokester Tom knew.

  It wasn’t the question he wanted to hear. Emyr would do what Tom could not. Katharine stood with the elfs, part of their circle but not part of their group. That was how he felt in Tir. He was tired of being on the outside looking in.

  “What are you thinking, Master Rymour?” asked Six.

  “Honestly?”

  “Do you know another way?” The elf grinned.

  “Yes, but I can’t use it anymore.” Tom offered his own smile but it felt insincere. “I don’t want to come with you,” he said. As soon as the words were out he felt relieved, like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His smile grew stronger. “I want to stay here.”

  Six’s grin vanished. “You’re not serious.”

  Tom shrugged. “I can’t tell jokes anymore,” he said. “You’ve got to lie to tell a joke.”

  “You can’t stay here, Tom.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we don’t belong here.”

  Tom frowned. “Maybe you don’t,” he said.

  “No mortal does. We’re not meant to be around magic for too long. Trust me, I’ve seen what it does to people.”

  “I lived here for seven years.”

  “And look what it’s done to you.”

  What had it done to him?

  “Look.” Six pointed to the tattoo on his cheek. “I know what it’s like to be a stranger. To never quite fit in. To know, even in the happiest of moments when camaraderie is high and everyone calls you a friend, that I don’t belong. In those moments I would run back to the Kingdom in an instant.

  “But I can’t. I can’t go back. So I have to make a place for myself. It’s tough, it’s unpleasant and it doesn’t always work. But it’s worth it.”

  “Maybe I don’t want tough and unpleasant,” said Tom. “Maybe I want something easy.”

  “Tom.” Six sighed and hunted for words. “I wou
ld not presume to call us friends. But hopefully you will not be too offended if I say that, to my eyes, you’ve always had something easy.”

  Easy? Was he drunk or stupid? “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Six raised his hands as if he could soothe Tom like an aurochs. “If I’m wrong then I apologise. But think about it. When was the last time you took the hard road?”

  “I can see why your own kind didn’t want you anymore.” He felt bad as soon as he’d said it. It was a low blow and he saw the hit in Six’s eyes. Then they hardened to Tom.

  “You’re chasing a fantasy,” he said.

  The stupid elf didn’t know what he was talking about. Easy. As if leaving his wife and son had been easy. As if leaving Faerie had been easy. As if coming back to a Tir that had moved on a hundred years had been easy.

  But someone else had decided who his wife would be. Some other power had sent him a son. Faerie had been an escape. When Maev sent him away, he lived in an isolated hut rather than trying to fit in. He had obeyed Regent’s summons to Cairnagan because arguing would have been too difficult. And, of course, he had waited four years for someone to give him an excuse to return to Faerie rather than find his own reasons. He never made the tough decision. He just went along with the path life laid out for him.

  He’d always had it easy.

  His anger didn’t vanish in a puff of smoke. But he knew he’d been too harsh to Six. He opened his mouth to apologise but Melwas strode out of the crowd before he could say anything.

  Melwas, the darker face of Midhir. The features were the same. His face was still drawn in strong, aristocratic lines and there was always a smirk on his lips and a laugh in his eyes. But it was the laugh of the lord at the petty ants that served him. Sharp horns coiled from out of his golden curls, pointed forward like an aurochs’, and he wore black and silver plate armour. At his hip he wore his sword, Emylt, sheathed in stamped leather and bearing dragon’s heads on the hilt and an apple on the pommel. Emylt, the blade that had cut Emyr down.

  At his heels came Herne. Where Maev had Robin Goodfellow as her personal attendant, Melwas had Herne. Herne was unique amongst the fay in that he never changed; his face was always dark. He had a short, muscular, human form, with dirty, sharp nails and only filthy trousers to cover his modesty. He never walked like a man, but stalked on all fours. And his neck ended, not in a human head, but in a horned hart’s skull. His eyes were merely sockets with a red glow deep within them. Herne was the hunter, through and through, and he was the most dangerous fay of them all.

  Melwas stopped before Tom. Herne crawled around him. It was unnerving. Tom tensed, ready for an attack any minute.

  “Well now, little Tom,” said Melwas. His voice had taken on a rich baritone but there was no mistaking it. Nor was there any mistaking the scorn in his voice. “You’re still here. We thought you may have run back to Tir already.”

  There could be no bold words or slights against Melwas. “I thought you wanted me to stay, Your Majesty?”

  “Perhaps we merely wanted you to feel our displeasure.”

  Herne snapped at Tom’s heels. He did his best not to flinch but a quirk of Melwas’ lips proved he had failed. “You once told me that the displeasure of a king was both terrible and wonderful.” Tom’s mouth was dry. He swallowed. “For no wrath could match it, but to be under a king’s gaze is to be under his grace, even if that grace be temporarily removed.”

  Melwas smirked. “Yes,” he said. “We did say that to you. Do you remember why?”

  Because the night before I laid with your wife. And what one fay knows, all fay know. “You did not give me a reason, Your Majesty, and I did not presume to ask for one.”

  “You must have your suspicions.”

  “I would not presume to guess at Your Majesty’s motivations.”

  Melwas sneered. “You seem to love word games as much as that fool Goodfellow.” He waved a hand. “Herne, come.”

  “Master.” Herne’s voice was like jagged gravel against the ear. It didn’t seem to be a noise made by his body, more something dragged from the pits of misery that were his eye sockets. “We should not leave quarry at our backs.”

  “This is no quarry.” He looked Tom up and down and obviously found him wanting. “He is not worthy of our chase.”

  “But he could be.” Herne crawled to his master’s side, who obligingly bent down to hear his whispers.

  “Aye, Herne. Perhaps you are right.” He looked at Tom again and seemed to see things that were not there. It was discomforting to be under that gaze. Tom knew what dark thoughts Melwas harboured towards him. He had intimated at tortures and more for seven years. “Perhaps little Tom could be more.”

  Stay silent. That was best. Speak when spoken to. Do not rouse his anger.

  “Emyr has asked you to bear his blade, has he not?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Yet you have asked to stay in Faerie.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” It was embarrassing to be asked that in front of the others. He wished he’d told them earlier. He could hear them murmuring, whispering to each other.

  “You seem to have a decision to make.” Melwas smiled. “Please one and disappoint the other.” He brought his face to a level with Tom’s. His breath smelt of wine and blood. “But we all know who you will choose, don’t we?”

  “Your Majesty?” It was the safest thing to say.

  “Save your honorifics, little Tom.” Melwas’ voice was no more than a murmur, soft, almost a lover’s voice. “You hide behind them, as if they can protect you from what you have done to us. Be brave, little Tom. Come out from behind the lie. Face us.”

  “I face you now.”

  “In the guise of a loyal subject,” he murmured. “Not as a rival. For that is how you see us, is it not?”

  He didn’t want to admit it. But Melwas was a rival for Maev’s affections. With him gone, the field would be clear.

  “But the last mortal worthy of rivalling us was Emyr,” said Melwas. “He fought wars and united peoples. What have you done?”

  Nothing. He had done nothing. He had wasted his youth in wine and women. He had spent his last years waiting for Faerie.

  “Hmm.” Melwas straightened. “Good boy, Herne.” He reached into a pouch at his waist, pulled out a bone and flicked it at Herne. The fay caught it in his mouth and chewed, the bone cracking and crunching. Melwas walked away without another word. Herne paused to glare at Tom. Though his face was an impassive skull, it looked like he was grinning. Leering. It made Tom shiver and that elicited a laugh from Herne, a harsh bark that hurt the ears. Then they were gone.

  “And you want to stay here?” Six said. “Where he decides whether you live or die?”

  “He doesn’t,” said Tom. “Maev does.”

  “Hasn’t she changed too?”

  “It would be a mistake to rely on our queen, be she Maev or Mab.” The voice was dark and damp, as if spoken from lungs filled with water. Tom turned and saw a figure crouched in the shrubbery. It stood, tall and gangly, hunched. What wasn’t covered in tattered rags was instead covered in wet, green moss and mould. Spiders skittered through its pale, lank hair. It was a hideous, ugly creature.

  “Well met, Thomas Rymour,” it said. “Has your return been everything you hoped it would be?”

  “It is not as I imagined,” Tom admitted. “But what is Faerie if not unpredictable?”

  “You don’t know us, do you?” The fay shambled closer. There was something in the eyes Tom recognised.

  “My apologies,” he said.

  It waved a filthy hand. “You know our fairer face,” it gurgled. It made Tom want to clear his own throat. “You called us friend. Valued our counsel. Now you recoil from us.”

  Tom tried to marshall his expression. The fay smelt like rotten leaves. “I am sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be.” Its breath was like a bog. “We have lost our fine appearance but not our fine mind. We know we are rev
olting. Our name is Fenoderee. You knew us as Glastyn.”

  Iron nails. Tom had never seen such a dramatic transformation. Beautiful, fey, courtly Glastyn, the charmer and the lover, reduced to this shambling mess of a creature.

  No pity, he told himself. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. Cause no offence.

  “I am glad to see you have been readmitted to Faerie,” he said, forcing as pleasant a smile as he could muster. “Maev has forgiven your trespass?”

  “She has.” Fenoderee shifted; one of his legs seemed twisted and infected with fungus. “We have fulfilled our task. All is forgiven.”

  “I am glad. Glastyn missed Faerie greatly. Did you?”

  “We have not been away,” Fenoderee replied. “Glastyn was sent away just after Calmae last.”

  “Oh.” Tom frowned. He’d thought the fay’s exile was much older. “Well, you must be grateful for Maev’s forgiveness.”

  Fenoderee chuckled. It sounded like the choking of a drowning man. “We are more grateful for our persuasive nature,” he said. “But that is why she sent us to you.”

  “Sent you?”

  Fenoderee nodded, keeping a serious eye on Tom. “We are not as naive as Glastyn. We know our king and queen had a purpose in exiling us. They have a purpose and we played a part in it.”

  “What purpose?”

  But the fay shrugged, an ugly and awkward gesture, as if his arms weren’t properly connected to its shoulders. “Look at us,” he said. “We are not in play anymore.”

  He turned and shambled back into the shrubbery. “Wait,” Tom said. But he did not stop.

  “Glastyn is a fool,” Fenoderee said. “He doesn’t even see the board, let alone the hand that moves him.”

  The fay disappeared into the bushes and left Tom feeling very small and stupid.

  Calgraef was over and the plain was a mess. Fires had burnt out, mugs and plates were scattered underfoot, tables were broken and overturned. The effigy of Cei was a mound of ashes and charcoal. A few fay were scattered amongst the debris in a semblance of a hangover, but most were nowhere to be seen. Though it was still the eternal twilight, Faerie had the feel of a grey morning after the night before.