“But you said I was in withdrawal. How does that help?”
“You know about medicine?” Six asked. “The five elements of the body?”
“Fire, water, wind, earth and void, yes.”
“Void is another word for magic,” Six said. “You were exposed to too much of it in Faerie. Your void grew larger than the other elements and caused an imbalance, which is what causes sickness.”
“But then we left Faerie,” he said. “The void was gone.”
“But the space it occupied was still there. The body expected it. The fakeroot makes the body forget about void and helps it fill in the space with other elements.”
“So there’s no void now?”
“For a few days, no.” Six smiled. “Don’t worry. It’ll come back.”
“But there’s still imbalance.”
“Just for a few days.”
Tom frowned. It didn’t sound right to him. How could too much void make him sick when too little did not? “Have I lost my foresight?”
Six shrugged. “I suppose so. It’s a gift based on magic.”
No foresights for a few days. It might be nice. He leaned closer and murmured, “Can I tell a lie?”
Six smiled. “Try it and find out.”
His first instinct was to try, to whisper the simplest lie to himself. But he looked ahead and saw Katharine riding alone. A liar and a coward, she’d called him. And what was his first instinct when he saw a way out of honesty? To run away from the truth. To lie.
“Maybe not,” he said.
“Really?” Six shook his head. “I’d hate to have to tell the truth all the time. We need lies. They make society work.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
Six shot him a smile and opened his mouth to say something. But then he stopped. “Can you hear that?”
Tom listened. The others had stopped talking too and were looking around them. “No,” he said. He couldn’t hear anything but the crunch of snow under the horses’ hooves.
Dank turned his horse around. “We’re almost there,” he said. He wore a serious expression that seemed at odds with his youthful face. “Remember this: she is trying to cast a spell on you. Control yourself. Remember your own mind.”
He seemed to think that was sufficient, for he turned and carried on again. “What did he mean by that?” Six asked.
“Magic,” Tom said. Void.
The air grew warmer around them as they travelled and the snow began to thin and disappear. The trees sprouted leaves again and greenery returned to the forest. There was still quiet, though; no animals scurried past and no birds sang in the trees. Tom looked up and saw the sky was no longer grey but a dark twilight blue. Were they going back into Faerie? He turned to Six but the elf had a look of rapture on his face, a vacant gaze and an empty smile.
“Six?”
“It’s beautiful.”
Tom heard something then, a hint of singing. It grew stronger as they rode and he felt as if they were riding downhill, like something was making the journey easier. In fact the horses had picked up speed. By the time they reached the clearing they were trotting.
It was not a small clearing but it felt that way as it was dominated by a lake. Lush grass and beautiful flowers grew right up to the edge, giving way to crystal clear water that looked sweet and pure. A pile of black rocks rested to one side, but nothing else marred the tableau or distracted the eye from the figure sitting in the shallows.
Her singing was clear now and as beautiful as the water itself. Tom didn’t understand the words but he understood the song. It spoke of the hardships of life, the trials and the struggles that it entailed. And for what? There was a better way. An easier way. Rather than struggle with decisions and consequences, submit to a greater authority. Obey. It was easier that way. She was beautiful. The woman in the shallows was beautiful and you wanted to make her happy.
Tom shook his head. The magic was like a cloud of flies, buzzing around him and obscuring his view. But he could see past it. And the figure in the shallows was no woman.
She had a roughly human shape, but her skin was scales instead, brilliant silvers and shining blues. Her fingers and toes were webbed and ended in tiny hooked claws. When she smiled she revealed rows of sharp teeth, like a shark’s, and gills flapped on her neck. She had no hair, and delicate fins on her arms and legs flapped gently as if there was a breeze.
“Enough.” Dank climbed off his horse. The figure looked at him but that was all. “Nimuë, enough!”
Tom was surprised. The strength and authority emanating from Dank seemed like it belonged to an older man.
“Who are you, boy, to command us so?” The singing did not stop when she spoke.
“Our name is Dank and we are an envoy of the fay.” He pulled back his hood to reveal a gaunt, bald head covered in whorling tattoos.
Neirin dismounted too. “Lady Nimuë, my name is Lord Neirin, Shield of the Eastern Angles. I am at your service.” With that he dropped to one knee and bared his wrists.
“Lord Neirin. We have been waiting for you,” she said. “Come to us.”
Dank placed a hand on Neirin’s shoulder when he tried to rise. “Stop. Now.” The boy’s face was stern but it was directed at Nimuë. “Or you will forfeit our grace.”
She scowled and her gills closed. The singing stopped. “One day, Faerie man, your grace will be nothing to us.”
She spoke with that same plurality that the fay did, all ‘we’ and ‘us’, but she was not of the fay? Yet there was a definite link between this place and Faerie. It was odd. Six shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. “Are you okay?” Tom asked.
“Yes.” But he was distracted, as if he was trying to remember something.
“Until that time, Nimuë, you are our guest.” Dank let go of Neirin. “Do not displease us.”
Nimuë stood, water sliding off her legs and making her scales shimmer. She stood tall and slender but strong. Her height was obviously meant to intimidate Dank. But he seemed unfazed. Of course, if he could live under the rule of Melwas and Mab, what would faze him?
“What do you want?” she asked.
“We are just a guide.” Dank stepped to one side. “The mortals have business with you.”
Neirin saw that as his cue. “Lady Nimuë, we have come seeking the blade that Angau bore. We have been told it lies here.”
“It does.” A smile returned to Nimuë’s lips. “Do you want me to give it to you?” Her gills opened again and she sang again.
“No,” Neirin said, voice thick, as if he were choking on the words.
“What do you want?”
“To serve you.”
She extended a hand towards him and Neirin stood, reaching out to her.
“Lord Neirin, no.” Brega jumped down and grabbed hold of him.
“Release me,” he demanded. “Let go!”
Nimuë’s song grew louder. Six climbed out of his saddle too.
“And another.” Nimuë smiled. “Another elf. How delicious.” She licked her lips. It was unsettling. But Tom could still feel a tiny part of himself wanting to go to her, to bend his knee and do whatever it took to make her happy. Dank stood to one side, unimpressed. Siomi was helping Brega with Neirin and Katharine remained in her saddle.
“Is it magic?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Tom.
“What do we do?”
“Stopping those two would be a good start.” Tom climbed out of his saddle and Katharine followed suit. He took hold of Six. “Sit.” The elf looked past him and tried to push him away. “Sit down, Six.”
“I just want to get a closer look,” he said. “She’s a fascinating specimen.”
“Look with your eyes.”
Katharine helped force Six to the ground. “Stay with him,” he said and Katharine nodded while the elf gazed at the fish woman.
Neirin would be another matter. He was fighting both Brega and Siomi as they tried to restrain him. Tom wen
t to Siomi’s horse and pulled rope from her saddlebags.
“Lord Neirin, please!” Siomi had an arm around his neck and one of his arms up behind his back. Neirin roared and kicked out, catching Brega in the shoulder.
Tom handed her the rope and caught his other arm. He was strong despite his willowy physique, but it didn’t take long for all three of them to bind his arms and put him on his front.
“This is treachery,” he bellowed. “I am the Shield of the Eastern Angles. You will release me. You will suffer!”
“And you, Thomas Rymour?” Nimuë seemed terribly amused. “Are you taking out the competition? Will you be our only consort today?”
“No.”
Her smile vanished and she blinked. Her singing stopped for a moment and then started again in earnest. “But wouldn’t you like to make us happy?”
“Your song won’t work on me,” he said. “You may as well stop.”
“Our song works on everyone.” She stepped forward out of the water, fins beating the air. Tom stood his ground. “Maybe you just can’t hear it properly.”
“I hear it. But I’m here for the sword. Nothing else.”
“Submit,” she hissed. She waited for a reaction and, when she didn’t get one, her hand snapped out and took hold of his jaw. Her skin was cold and rough. “Submit, surface man.”
He felt fear for a moment, that she would hurt him, even kill him. The others wouldn’t get to him in time and he wasn’t sure Dank would intervene. But then he looked into her eyes. There was anger, yes, and disdain too. But there was fear as well. She was scared of something.
“I did not come here to bow to you,” he said. “Nor did I come here to hurt you.”
The singing stopped.
“We just want the sword,” Tom said.
She let go, her rough skin grazing his jaw. He took a breath. Anger would not help him.
“Why should we give it to you?” She sounded petulant, like a child.
“Tir is under attack,” he said. “We need it to protect ourselves.”
She laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Why should we care about the surface? It has never cared for us.”
“I do not speak for the surface. I speak only for myself. I wish no harm upon you.”
“One man means little to us.”
“Don’t lie, Nimuë.” A dark and heavy voice seemed to come from nowhere. “You care more for we land-dwellers than you would have him think.”
“Silence!” She whirled on the pile of rocks. “We gave you no leave to speak.”
“I did not ask for it.”
“If you want feeding you’ll stop talking,” said Nimuë.
“You know I lost my taste for food a long time ago.”
Tom walked around the shore and up to the pile of black stone. “Is there someone in there?” he asked.
“Hello, Tom.” The voice echoed with the wet rock sound of someone speaking from inside a cave. “It’s good to see you again.”
The voice sounded familiar. “Do I know you?”
“In a way.”
There was a small gap in the rocks. Tom knelt down and peered into it.
Black eyes blinked back.
“Emyr’s black bones,” he swore. The old man from his foresights.
“Yes, you were surprised, weren’t you?” The eyes were obscured and an old man’s hand reached through the gap. Only the fingers could fit through. Tom stared at them for a moment. What was he doing in there?
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Do you want me to get you out?”
“He stays there until we say so.”
“Oh hush, Nimuë.” The fingers waved. “I am quite well, Tom, and I don’t want you to get me out. Take my hand.”
What was he doing in there? Tom tried to lift a rock but it wouldn’t move, not even a little. And it felt strange, too solid, too real. “What are you doing in there?”
“I will tell you one day. For now, take my hand.”
Why? What did he want? Tom reached out and touched the fingers. They were old and wrinkled, the skin sagging from the bones. But they clutched at him with surprising strength, like a drowning man clutching the side of a rescue boat. “Hello, my friend,” he said.
“Who are you?” Tom asked.
“You can call me Ambrose.”
Ambrose. The name of the wizard in Emyr’s stories.
“Don’t worry, Tom,” he said. “You don’t know me yet.”
“But you know me?”
“He can’t remember the past,” Nimuë said with a sneer. “He can only remember the things to come. He did it to himself.”
“Actually the fay did it to me,” Ambrose said. “I think.”
Tom looked to Dank who nodded. “He asked for a boon. The fay provided one.”
“A foolish move on my part. But you have been touched by the fay as well, haven’t you, Tom?” The fingers retreated and dark eyes blinked at him. “Perhaps we are fools together?” Ambrose’s voice was hollow and cold.
“I’ve seen you. In my foresights. You’ve talked to me.”
“Have I?”
“How is this possible?”
“Magic makes many things possible.”
“I’ve never had foresights like that before. How did you do it?”
“That you will learn later. It is not why you are here right now.”
Tom nodded. “Emyr’s sword. Caledyr.”
“The sword is ours,” Nimuë snapped. “We are its caretaker, not that old fool.”
Tom moved to stand but Ambrose grasped at his hand again. “Nimuë will not give it up easily,” he hissed. “But she feels powerless and her people think in terms of trade. Offer her something for it.”
Tom nodded and stood. “If you are its caretaker,” he said to Nimuë, “then you have been entrusted by someone else. Pass that trust onto us.”
“And give ourself no reason for being?” Her fins thrashed. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
Tom pretended to think. He’d already figured out what he could offer her in trade. Power might motivate some, but curiosity motivated everyone. “What if we gave you something in return?” he said.
“Me, sweet lady.” Neirin had pulled his mouth out from under Siomi’s hand. “Take me in exchange.” Siomi’s hand clapped over his mouth and Neirin was subdued once more.
“One elf?” she scoffed. “Hardly a fair trade, when he would come to me of his own will.”
Tom smiled. He had her. He let himself look as smug and knowing as possible. “But I wouldn’t.”
“No.” She frowned at him as if he were a puzzle. “What are you, Thomas Rymour?”
“A mere man,” he said. “What are you?”
“Royalty.”
So she couldn’t be a fay.
“A mere man could not resist our song,” she said. “So you are more than that.”
“I do have a secret,” he said.
“Then tell us.”
“You want to know?”
“Yes.”
Tom shrugged. “It is a very great secret.”
Nimuë stepped forward. The smell of fish filled his senses. “Do not think to toy with me, little man,” she said.
“Why should I surrender what you want when you will not surrender what I want?”
Her fins stilled. “I see.”
She said nothing for a long moment. Tom wondered if she was weighing the decision. If she said no, what else did they have to offer? “I can share that secret with others,” he said. “Then your song won’t work on anyone.”
Her eyes flashed. “You threaten us?”
Royalty didn’t live alone in a lake. Ambrose was right. She was powerless. “You threaten Tir by withholding the sword.”
“We will not be spoken to like this.”
Tom said nothing. He just met her stare and did not blink. Her fury became uncertainty and then it fell apart. Her shoulders slumped. It was an oddly human gesture from such a strange creature. “Very well,”
she said.
The water behind her bubbled and then something rose to the surface. It was a formless shape, green and disgusting, and it drifted to the shore as if pushed by something invisible. Nimuë lifted it from the water, pulled it open. It was some kind of plant, shrouding something else. She tore it away and revealed a sword sheathed in a simple scabbard. She handed it to Tom without a word.
He stared at it for a moment. It was not what he had been expecting. The scabbard was wrapped in leather, no designs or real craftsmanship in evidence. The pommel was a golden apple, the hilt bore twin dragon heads. He drew the blade, which slid free with barely a sound. It was bronze, like something out of ancient history, but when he swung it through the air he could hear its keen edge, as if it cut the very air itself. The blade was short, perhaps no longer than his forearm, and leaf-shaped. He had expected a mighty, long, straight greatsword of finest steel. But this, he realised, was perfectly balanced. This was a sword for killing, not for show.
He felt magic in it too, he realised. He looked at his distorted reflection in the blade and felt in the metal a slight vibration that wasn’t there. It made him think of freedom. Excitement. The anticipation of work to be done.
“Caledyr,” he said.
“Yes, Caledyr. Emyr’s sword.” Nimuë’s voice was small.
He gazed at it for a moment longer. This sword represented everything. A beacon of hope. A strong leader. A united Tir. Peace. War. A sense of purpose.. He had never felt so sure of what he was doing.
“Thank you,” he said. He returned the sword to its sheath and strapped it to his back. He could still feel it. He felt both ready and eager but didn’t know what for.
“You have what you want,” Nimuë said. It was a subtle reminder of their deal. But there was no arch glare, no demand in her voice. She was beaten. He could walk away. He didn’t have to give her anything.
“Six,” he said. “Where is the fakeroot?”
The elf pulled a small pouch from his pocket. Tom took it and held it out to her. She peered at it.
“Fakeroot,” he said. She reached out and plucked it from his palm, opened it, sniffed. “Brew it into a tea and it deadens the drinker to magic.”
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 27