Puck was taking them to Mab and he was as loud and raucous as Faerie was still and quiet. “And then we pushed her into the fire. Ho ho ho!” The dark face of Robin Goodfellow, Puck was much the same save his fur was darker, his teeth and nails sharper, and he crawled on hands and feet in the same manner as Herne.
“Poor Aguane,” Tom said.
“Tut tut, good Tom.” Puck was leading Tom by the hand and tugged in remonstrance. Despite his small frame, the fay was remarkably strong and it lit sparks of pain in Tom’s neck. “If you would stay here you must stop all this ‘poor Aguane’ nonsense.”
“But why did you do it?”
“She needed a lesson.” Puck dropped Tom’s hand and picked up a flagon, only to sling it at a fay in the distance. It struck and Puck cackled. “She was jealous of our ways with a joke, our skills at a prank.”
“Did you not crown yourself king of such things, Puck?” Tom asked. It was difficult to maintain a jovial tone. The fay shared a mind. Did Puck know about this purpose of Maev’s? Glastyn hadn’t.
“Yes indeed, good Tom.” Puck straightened, assuming the posture of a royal. “We wore a crown and bore a sceptre and gave pardons to those with ill humour.”
“I seem to recall the crown was Midhir’s,” said Tom. “And those pardons were a bag of iron nails you’d smuggled into Faerie. I still don’t know how.”
“Ho ho ho.” The Puck’s laugh was not as friendly as Robin Goodfellow’s. “That was a good prank.”
“The king was not pleased.”
“Yet our queen was.”
Tom nodded. “She did laugh.”
“And laughter is all the pardon an honest Puck needs.” He bowed and returned to all fours. “And now your friends are leaving.”
“Yes, they are.” Tom looked back to them. Few met his gaze. Were they in play? Were they part of this purpose?
“Good riddance.” Puck crawled at Tom’s feet. Tom placed a hand on his head, scratching just behind the ear. The brownie purred. “With the mortals gone we can start having some fun.”
But now the idea of pulling pranks on the other fay didn’t seem as appealing as it once had.
They stopped outside the throne room. It was changed too, the glowing white leaves now withered and black, and Herne sat on one side of the entrance like a demonic gargoyle. Puck turned to Neirin and said, “Our queen awaits you.”
“To tell us where the blade is?”
Puck shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Then let us intrude on her hospitality no more.”
Herne glared at Puck as the fay took his place on the other side of the doorway.
“What is this?” Herne grated.
“The mortals,” Puck replied. The two fay watched each other like dogs about to fight over a bone. “They come to see our masters.”
“They come to beg.” Herne turned one eye to Tom. “You come to lap at our queen’s feet once more?”
Would that play to her purpose? Or oppose it? “We seek an audience,” said Tom.
“As do we all, good Tom. For what good is a performance without an audience?” Puck spared him a wink. “All fay know that, even our good queen. Our bad one, too.”
“We don’t come to perform. Just to talk.”
“Talk, good Tom? Think you can match wits with us?” Puck grinned. “Perhaps you could hold your own against Robin Goodfellow. But against us, Tom, the fearsome Puck?”
It all seemed so tiresome. The constant games, the wordplay and the sparring and the rivalries. “We shall see, fearsome Puck,” he said with his best smile. “May we enter?”
Puck saw through his smile and scowled. “We thought a tongue might make you fun, Thomas Rymour.”
“Fish have tongues, Puck. It’s the mind that matters.”
“Then mind yourself, if you would stay. Our queen has no use for the dreary.”
“Enter,” said Herne. He seemed amused by something. Tom tried not to imagine the fay taking a bite out of his legs as he walked past.
Without the glow of the leaves to illuminate the throne room it was draped in darkness. Two burning biers had appeared, throwing flickering shadows every-where. Both Melwas and Mab lounged in their thrones, like smug little spiders. Tom walked in and knelt as before and, as before, Mab stood.
The differences between Maev and Mab were subtle; you had to know where to look. Mab’s nose was hooked, her cheekbones sharper. Her lips were fuller, her fingers longer. She was slimmer, making her seem elongated. But she hid those changes in plain sight by wearing more revealing clothes. Her scarlet dress was tight and short, baring arms and legs and even her midriff. It left nothing to the imagination. Whereas Maev’s beauty was suggestive and seductive, Mab’s was apparent and aggressive. Her hair was worn up in a topknot. It reminded Tom of the man he’d killed.
She walked on the brittle leaves that carpeted the ground. They crunched and crackled beneath her bare feet.
“Leaving so soon?” Gone was the seductive lilt. Now she was haughty and precise. Not unlike Neirin, an affectation to remind the listener who wielded the power.
“By your leave only, Queen Mab.”
Never ‘my queen’. He had seen fay and men alike flayed for suggesting such possession.
“You would not find your way back without it.” It was a subtle rebuke and Tom took it silently. “And yet your friends have only sampled the delights that Faerie has to offer. Why do they not stay a little longer? Their war will still be waiting for them.”
“Innocent people are dying, Your Majesty.” Tom kept his eyes on the ground.
“Innocence.” She was smirking when Tom looked up at her. “A myth, our Tom. No-one is innocent.” She knelt before him. Her eyes were without pity. “Everyone is guilty of something.”
It was as if her words and her gaze plucked his own guilt from his deepest thoughts. He was abandoning them. Draig, Six and the others. Katharine. All of the innocent people in Tir who were suffering. He was running away and hiding from it all when they could not.
“Lord Neirin would save them nonetheless.”
“How noble.” She sounded bored. She stood, returned to her throne. “Still, we must admire him for his dedication. He believes in something and will fight for it. There are not many mortals who would.” She sat, back straight, hands like claws on the armrests. “Mortals call us feckless yet they abandon their causes for very little, it seems.”
Melwas smirked at Tom. He could see the thought in the fay’s eyes: you are not worthy of me. You are no rival.
“If I may, Your Majesty?” Neirin said. Mab nodded, sharp and swift. “We will not abandon this cause. Rest assured we will make good use of your help, and use Angau’s weapon to bring the Western Kingdom to heel.”
For glory. For your own ego. For all the wrong reasons.
“Well said, Lord Neirin,” Melwas nodded at the elf. Then he said, “We will give you a guide. This guide will take you to the resting place of Emyr’s blade. Then he will accompany you until you return it to us, here, in Faerie.”
“You would bring it back to Emyr?” Tom asked. Was that their purpose?
“Emyr is here, is he not?” But Melwas sounded amused. Was he laughing at Tom?
“Very good, Your Majesty.”
“Your guide is waiting for you with your horses.” Mab flicked a hand. “Go now. Return Emyr’s blade to us when you are done with your little quest.”
He heard the others rise behind him. But he stayed knelt on the leaves. Even in them he could feel magic, a gentle vibration in things. One sat above the others, cracked and broken where it had been trodden on. It seemed to echo how he felt. His life had pushed him here and there, between Tir and Faerie, and he felt bruised and battered for it. It would be so easy to lie down and rest.
Why had she sent Glastyn to him?
“We dismissed you, Thomas Rymour.” Her voice was cold.
His heart hammered. “I have further business to discuss with Your Majesty.”
> “Be quick about it.”
Tom nodded, his heart in his mouth. He took a breath and hesitated. Should he do this? Would he regret it? He was wracked with indecision.
“Speak,” Mab snapped.
He spoke before he could regret it. “I would ask permission to leave Faerie.”
He wasn’t sure what he expected. Anger. Disappointment. Sadness. Maybe even that she would implore him to change his mind. Instead she just said, “Very well.”
That was it. Nothing more. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t she want to know why?
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Melwas prompted.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” The leaf before him was just one of many, strewn on the ground with disregard. No-one cared for it. It was just a leaf.
“Now you may go.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Tom stood. Bowed. Left.
“I don’t understand.”
“My thoughts were you wish to stay?”
“What changed your mind?”
Six and Draig pelted him with questions. The others walked on ahead. Katharine kept looking over her shoulder. She looked unsure of him, but not happy.
Puck and Herne followed at their heels.
“Leaving, good Tom? But we had so many pranks for us to play!”
“He’s not leaving, Puck. He’s running. He fears for his life.”
“Is that true?” Six asked. “It is dangerous here.”
“No, I’m not running,” Tom mumbled. Why hadn’t she asked him why he was leaving? Didn’t she care? Was it all a lie?
“Will you come back?” Puck asked.
“Yes.” Maybe she was hurt? Hurt that he wanted to leave her. He turned to Puck. “Please convey to Queen Mab my deepest gratitude for my time here. Please tell her I look forward to my return, and I hope it will not be too long before I see her again.”
“You take us for a messenger?” Puck danced away. “I am an honest Puck, to be sure, but a messenger? An errand boy?”
“Please, Puck.”
The brownie scampered up and stood, thrusting his face up at Tom’s, breathless and eager. “Do you ask a boon of us?”
“No.” He said it without thought. Never. Not a boon.
“Oh.” Puck’s face fell. “Well, maybe Mab will get your message. Maybe she won’t.”
It didn’t matter. What one fay knew, all fay knew. That was how it worked.
“I’m glad you’re coming with us, Tom,” said Six.
“Also I am glad.” Draig smiled and clapped him on the back. “You are a friend to me.”
Tom smiled back. “Thank you,” he said. “You are a friend to me too.”
A figure was stood with their horses, human-looking and wrapped in furs as if for winter. His furs had a hood, too, thrown forward so that his face was in shadow. Short. Slim. He watched them approach, still and silent.
It was only when they reached him that he smiled the confident and cocksure smile of a young man. “We did not anticipate travelling with the great Thomas Rymour,” he said. “It is good to meet you at last.” Then he extended a hand.
It was solid. Substantial. Mortal. “And you,” Tom said. “What’s your name?”
“Dank.” The boy gave a smile that suggested he already knew what an odd name it was.
“And you are our guide, Dank?” asked Neirin, voice too loud, reminding everyone he was there.
“Indeed, Lord Neirin.” The boy mounted his horse and they followed suit.
“Lead on,” said Neirin.
“Not yet.” Dank looked up and smiled. “We’re waiting for one more.”
Tom followed his gaze and saw a little light in the twilight sky. A sprite, a tiny fay that shone with a bright inner light. This one flew down and alighted on Dank’s shoulder. Tom could just make out a female form with wings on arms and legs, but her light was too bright to make out details.
“We’ve been waiting,” said Dank and the sprite said something too, her voice too small to be heard.
“We see,” Dank replied. Then he tipped back his hood, revealing a gaunt, bald head, the skin covered in whorling tattoos. He bared his neck, also tattooed, and the sprite clambered over the fur and onto the skin. Then, to Tom’s amazement, the tattoos began to move. There were a few gasps as they twisted and writhed on Dank’s skin and the fay began to push at them. The boy’s face grew taut and he grimaced. Then the sprite began to disappear, as if Dank was made of water and she was stepping beneath the surface. Sweat broke out on his brow as she vanished, her glow shining through his skin for a moment before fading. The tattoos settled and stilled.
“Oen’s black bones.” Six’s curse was no more than a whisper. “What was that?”
“I don’t know,” Tom murmured. He’d lived in Faerie seven years and never seen anything like it. “I don’t know,” he repeated.
Dank wiped his brow and gave them a smile. “Shall we go?” he said, as if nothing strange and unusual and frankly disturbing had happened.
“Is that fay,” Six asked, “inside you?”
Dank nodded.
“I’ve never heard of that,” Tom said.
“There are many things about us you do not know,” Dank said, and his look and manner and tone resembled Mab for a fleeting moment.
Then she was gone and the boy tugged his reins. “This way,” he said. “Be warned, it’s cold where we travel to.”
They followed all in silence save for Neirin, who was either unfazed by what he had seen or hid it well. He pestered Dank with questions. Where were they going? Was it far to the sword? Would it be hard to find? If Dank offered any answers, Tom couldn’t hear them. But then he rode at the back of the pack, embarrassment and unease his only companions. He’d made a fool of himself. He’d finally returned to Faerie only to leave it again. And he didn’t know why. Because Emyr wanted him to carry a sword? Because of what Melwas had said? A sense of duty to Katharine, Draig, Six and the others? It certainly didn’t feel right to leave them with whatever Faerie creature was leading them through the forest.
She sent us to you, Fenoderee had said. Why?
The air began to thin. Or did it? No, it was just the thickness of magic that faded. The air was normal, it just didn’t vibrate anymore. Funny how quickly he had grown used to that.
Then with a tug in his very soul and a blast of cold air, they left Faerie behind.
Chapter 17
The world was white and freezing, like a slap to all the senses. They gasped and began to scrabble in their saddlebags.
Dank laughed. It was an odd laugh, a combination of youthful humour and an older, darker, meaner pleasure. “We did warn you,” he said.
Tom watched the Easterners pull out dark furs, black of course, decorated with white bone patterns. It was so predictable Tom found it almost boring. Six and Katharine had nothing. Katharine pulled on a light jacket meant more for fashion than cold. Tom decided to pull on another shirt, but it did precious little.
They had emerged in more woods, though these were recognisably of Tir. The trees were solid and real, the sky grey and dreary and the ground covered in thick snow, a sight you would never see in Faerie. A few flakes drifted from the sky, as if Tir couldn’t decide whether to snow again or not.
“Where are we?” Neirin demanded.
“Tir, Lord Neirin.”
“Be more specific.”
“Erhenned,” Dank said. “On an island known as the Harbour.”
The Harbour. The island overrun by Western soldiers.
“Are you insane?”
“We’ll be caught.”
“We got stuck here last time.”
Tom said nothing. The cold was creeping into his bones and he found it hard to pay attention.
“You wanted us to bring you to Emyr’s sword.” Dank pointed into the woods. “That is what we have done.”
“It’s here?” Katharine asked.
“Yes,” said Dank, as if she were slow of thought.
“And then w
hat?” asked Neirin. “How do we get off this island?”
Dank shrugged. “We are just a guide.” With that he tugged the reins and set off.
“Definitely a fay,” said Six. But no-one laughed. Why would they? This was a hopeless situation. On an island overrun by the enemy, trying to find a sword. A sword, just one, as if that would make a difference. Was that why Mab had sent them here? To show them how ridiculous their journey was? Cruel Mab, with a smile that could emotionally eviscerate you yet still leave you hoping for more. His eye wandered over her in his mind and he smiled.
“Tom.” Six was tugging at him. “Come on.”
He nodded and followed. The others were ahead, their horses crunching through the pure snow. It was the only sound in this muffled world. Tom looked around. He had not seen much snow in his life. Tanabawr, where he had grown up, was too warm for snow. He had seen some in the Heel, but nothing like this. He touched a branch as he passed beneath and laughed as he knocked snow all over himself.
“Careful,” said Six. “You don’t want to catch cold.”
So pessimistic. This was beautiful. He laughed again, grabbing a handful from another branch. It was cold and stinging in his hands and the sensation amazed him.
“Are you okay?”
The snow began to melt in his hands. So quickly it went from something beautiful to something mundane. Like their journey. From beautiful, wonderful Faerie to mundane, confusing Tir. He looked up at the dreary sky. Not like the eternal twilight of Faerie. Here the sun rose and fell, flipping between day and night. Now he thought about it, that made no sense. Why did the moon give birth to the sun every night? Why did the sun fizzle and die every day? Why didn’t they just both sit in the sky together?
“Tom.” Six again. What did he want now? “This way.”
He looked. They had turned off this almost-path. Tom’s horse hadn’t followed. Why hadn’t it followed? It was Withed Stock. From the Marches. Tom had never seen the Marches. Katharine had often said he’d be more at home there. Others said the horsemen had their heads in the past. Perhaps it was the same thing.
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