The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  “It’s not as simple as that,” Dank said. He looked up. Above, as below, as all around, there was only this unnatural fog. But Dank looked as if he was gazing into a beautiful, starlit sky. “We share thoughts. We share a mind. But we don’t share everything. And whatever happened to Fenoderee is being kept from us.”

  Was that possible? “So I could tell you something and you could keep it from Melwas?”

  “We could try.” The boy wore a shy smile. “It isn’t normally us that keep the secrets.”

  Is that what Fenoderee had been doing? Keeping a secret? “Can all fay keep secrets?”

  “We think all fay can do it.” He shook his head. “But it isn’t easy.”

  “How do you do it?”

  “Have you ever lied a lie until you believe it to be true?” The boy looked at him with a gaze that said he knew the truth, however Tom might answer.

  Not that he could answer any other way. “Yes.”

  He nodded. “You do it by thinking the lie over and over. Rationalising it. Explaining it. And, above all, not thinking about the truth.” He undercut his point with a shrug. “That’s the key. You don’t think about the truth.”

  Tom tried to imagine forcing his thoughts to skirt around an idea, knowing it was there but never looking directly at it. He couldn’t imagine how difficult it was. Surely by thinking about not thinking about it, you were thinking about it?

  We cannot think on it too much.

  Fenoderee had been keeping a secret. No. He’d been trying to tell Tom a secret. And the fay hadn’t wanted him to know about it.

  Why did the fay want to destroy the monoliths?

  “Don’t worry about Fenoderee,” Dank said. “It isn’t long until Calmae. Then he will be Glastyn again.”

  But Glastyn wouldn’t tell him. “I just don’t understand what he was trying to achieve.”

  Dank waved a hand. “Don’t let it bother you.”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “Not really.”

  “You don’t want to know what Fenoderee did to deserve that?”

  A shadow passed over the boy’s face and his voice was deeper when he said, “Some things are not worth prying into.”

  Tom nodded and offered a smile. But it was weak, watery. He felt it quaver on his face, because he knew, in that moment, Dank wasn’t ignorant at all. He knew. Dank knew what Fenoderee had been trying to tell him.

  Coemyn was the village on the eastern coast of the Kingdom where they had washed up. It wasn’t of much strategic value, nor even psychological value. In fact, the only reason they were going there was for an easy victory; they could take credit for the fire Storrstenn had started in the wreck the night they’d left.

  And, to make it even easier, the village was built right on top of a Faerie Circle.

  “Why would you put a Circle under a village?” Brega asked.

  Dank frowned at her then offered a small smile. It gave him a young, boyish look. But Tom could see behind it now. It was an act. A facade. “The Circle was there centuries before the village,” he said. “The elfs built over it. But it still works.”

  “What’s on top of it?” Tom asked.

  And Dank shrugged, still with the same smile. “We’re not sure.” A boy’s answer, an arrogant belief that forewarned is neither forearmed nor necessary in the face of their abilities. But it was deceptive. Tom could see the fay deep within his eyes. The fay who knew, if not all, then more than they were letting on.

  “Mester Stoorworm, you had better stay here,” Tom said. Did he know, too?

  “Again?” His manner was too disarming, too innocent. Even his body, terrible and serpentine, made plain the lie of his empty, doglike dragon face.

  “Let us see where we appear first. There might not be room for you.”

  “Ho ho ho.” Puck had regained his former merriment. Where Tom had once found that charming, to so readily forget and forgive, now he found it disingenuous. “We believe he just called you fat, Mester!”

  Mester Stoorworm twisted himself to look at his tail. Despite himself, Tom said, “Ignore him.”

  “We’ll head for the square. Make a scene. You can make another speech,” Brega said to Tom. The thought of it wearied him, and he touched Caledyr for reassurance. “We’re in and out. No reason this has to be complicated.” She gave Tom a look heavy with meaning.

  “In and out,” he repeated.

  She gave a firm nod. “Very well. Let’s go.”

  There was a tug and the fog disappeared.

  It was replaced by a dark room, a soft bed, and screaming children.

  “Iron nails,” Tom swore, fighting to keep his balance as the bed beneath him rocked. He half-stepped, half-fell onto the floor, staggering into Brega, who was little more than a shadow.

  Something was bouncing on the bed and giggling.

  “Puck, stop that.” Tom blinked hard, opened his eyes wide, trying to force them to adjust to the dark.

  “The children,” Brega said. She was right. Their screams would draw attention.

  The door flew open, lantern light dazzled them. Tom had a moment to make out the small room, the two beds, the two screaming children.

  The elf in the doorway carrying a sword.

  “Drop the weapon,” Tom said. But he knew that, were their places reversed, he would have died first.

  The elf rushed into the room and lifted his blade.

  Caledyr slid from the scabbard with a whisper and Tom saw nothing but the attack.

  Block.

  He braced himself for the blow, the elf’s swing hitting Caledyr hard, the impact running down his arms. As always, Caledyr notched the blade.

  Push.

  He used the notch to tug the blades down, putting them between him and the elf, and pushed. They needed more room. Someone would get stabbed or worse. The elf staggered back, dropped the lantern. The children’s screams grew louder.

  Focus.

  The screams faded and all Tom could hear was his own breath, his own heartbeat.

  He pushed his foe into a small hallway. Even less room. The elf stepped aside to avoid hitting the wall, pulled his blade free, stabbed.

  Parry.

  Tom batted the attack aside, took a step back. The elf stabbed again.

  Parry.

  Tom obeyed. The elf stabbed, Caledyr ordered, Tom obeyed again, giving ground each time. He risked a glance back to see a staircase heading down. Perfect. Take the fight to a larger room or, better yet, outside.

  Avoid the low ground.

  Tom ignored the sword. When the elf stabbed again, he didn’t parry. Instead he let the blade pass between his flank and his arm, trapped the elf’s hand, wrapped his sword arm around the back of the elf’s neck, and pulled.

  He had meant to toss him down the stairs, but the elf got his own grip on Tom and they tumbled together. The steps were wood, hard, cracking his head, elbows, his back. They released each other and then they hit the floor. Tom kicked himself away and crawled to his hands and knees.

  Retrieve the sword.

  He’d dropped Caledyr. Aches and pains forgotten, he was on his feet, and then the blade was in his hands.

  Face the enemy.

  The elf was slower to his feet but quicker to his sword.

  Disable.

  He kicked the elf in the flank, knocked him to the floor again.

  Disarm.

  He batted the sword aside, crushed the elf’s wrist with his foot, forced him to drop his weapon. Tom kicked it away.

  Kill the enemy.

  In a moment Tom had reversed his grip on Caledyr and raised his arms, ready to impale his opponent.

  But his eyes caught movement. Another attacker?

  No. Dank. Stood at the top of the stairs. Trying to hold one of the kicking and struggling children.

  The roar in his ears faded and he could hear her screams.

  He heard babbling, prayers and begging from the elf at his feet.

  He heard muffled wails fr
om upstairs. Probably the mother.

  The terror in the eyes of the elf at his feet made his stomach clench.

  Kill the enemy.

  “Put the child down,” he said to Dank.

  Kill the enemy.

  “Put her down!” he bellowed.

  Dank started, his face a mixture of surprise and fury. “We have to silence her,” he replied.

  Kill the enemy.

  “No.”

  “She’ll bring half the Kingdom down on us.”

  Kill the enemy.

  “I said no!” And Tom threw the sword away, letting it fall to the floor behind him.

  The child continued to scream, he could still hear the wails from upstairs. But he felt a silence, like he was the only person left in Tir.

  He stepped back, giving the father space, letting him climb slowly and carefully to his feet. There was terror and distrust, an expectation that Tom was tricking him, or about to do something terrible.

  “Go,” Tom said, and pointed up the stairs. He kept his voice as clear and gentle as he could.

  The elf glanced up to his daughter, back to Tom. Took a step back. Another, when Tom nodded.

  “Dank, let the child go.”

  The boy obeyed, and the little elf clambered down the stairs to her father, who climbed to meet her, picked her up, hugged her, soothed her, stroked her hair and whispered in her ear.

  Tom tugged Siomi’s mask from his face.

  “Back to the Circle, Dank,” he said.

  “Are we leaving?”

  “We’re leaving.”

  Dank disappeared and the father looked back at Tom. “We’re going,” Tom said. “I’m sorry.”

  He knew they didn’t speak the human tongue. They looked at him like he was a monster. He pointed up the stairs and they scurried away.

  Caledyr lay on the floor, waiting for him. Tom was loath to touch it. But he couldn’t leave it either. No matter how much he wanted to.

  He reached out, waited for the onslaught. But the sword was quiet when he picked it up. Chastened.

  That elf is not the enemy, he thought. As if he could speak to it.

  The stairs felt like a mountain, and he felt more and more exhausted with each step.

  The bedroom was full to bursting. The mother and one child were bound and gagged on one bed, the father and the other child huddled on the other. Every cheek was wet, every eye wide. Terrified. The others stood between the two halves of the family. Intruders. Thieves in the night.

  “Untie them,” Tom said. “We’re leaving.”

  “We just arrived,” Brega said. It wasn’t a challenge. Just a statement.

  “And now we’re leaving.”

  “Shall we do this again, Tom?” Puck grinned and delight danced in his eyes.

  “No.” He hadn’t meant to bark. But he had. And the Puck bristled. Well, let him. Tom waited until the elfs were free and hugging and crying together. “Dank. Take us to Neirin.”

  The boy looked like he was sucking on a lemon. “What about the wreck?”

  He challenges us.

  Tom closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and the thought retreated along with the anger it came with. “Take us to Neirin,” he repeated.

  And with a tug, they were gone.

  The ride to the abandoned stable where the others were sleeping was a battle.

  Listen.

  No.

  Listen.

  No.

  Listen.

  The sword had no other tactics. No persuasive arguments. It didn’t need them. The only weapon it needed was its voice, because every word felt like one of Tom’s own thoughts. It will speak for you. How many thoughts had Caledyr placed amongst his own?

  Well. No more. He’d been letting other people think for him for too long. The sword. Neirin. The fay. Even the West. He’d let them all direct him. It was time to think for himself.

  The trouble was, he didn’t know what thoughts he should have.

  The morning felt cold. The moon had given birth to a soft, shy sun that hid behind cotton clouds and there was a wind from the east. He wrapped his travelling cloak around himself. But the mask and the sword were strapped to the saddle. He didn’t want to touch them.

  Listen.

  No.

  Where the sword felt like a quiet reserve of persistence, the mask felt like a silent face of judgement. Not that he felt its thoughts too. But he felt judged by it nonetheless. What would Siomi have said of their campaign across the Kingdom? Or of his actions of late?

  Listen.

  No.

  They crested the last hill and saw an enormous compound stretching away below them. There were huge, long stables in great rows that opened onto fields, all surrounding a circular track, in the middle of which was a single story villa. And all of that was enclosed in a great, tall wooden fence. It seemed too big to be abandoned. But there wasn’t a sound as they descended. Not until they reached the bottom and made their way to the great gate, which Sannvinn opened with a creak.

  “What happened?” she asked. “Are we discovered?”

  Listen.

  No.

  Sannvinn led them into the garden within the villa. This one was all stone, pebbles and pillars and statues. Their footsteps crunched as they walked, echoing in the quiet. Storrstenn looked up from his papers. Neirin frowned at them from where he sat cross-legged on a large, flat stone. Katharine and Six were tied together on the ground. Katharine wore a Western shawl and stared at her feet. Both of Six’s eyes were black. More of his handiwork.

  “Untie them,” Tom said to no-one in particular. He carried a sheathed Caledyr in one hand, Siomi’s mask in the other.

  “You said to keep them bound,” Storrstenn replied. “We cannot trust them.”

  Tom didn’t raise his voice or even look at the dwarf. “Untie them.” He offered Siomi’s mask to Neirin. “Thank you for this gift. But I have proven myself unworthy of it.”

  “I don’t understand.” Neirin had missed the mask; it was written all over his face, as was the pain it caused him to see it again. “What happened?”

  Listen.

  No.

  Tom watched Six and Katharine clamber to their feet. “You were right,” he told them. He wanted to look away as Katharine cradled her wrist. But he forced himself to see. “I should have listened to you. Both of you.”

  Never surrender.

  The thought was so strong it made his entire body twitch, the impulse to draw, to fight.

  “I think we’re beyond apologies.” Six’s voice was thick with bitterness, like treacle in his mouth.

  “You’re right. Words are easy. Even if they are true.” He looked at Katharine. How many times had she told him that? “And I am sorry. But actions are all that will make this right.”

  “You’ve acted enough,” she said. Her wrist wasn’t swollen or broken, but she held it to her chest like it might shatter.

  He said nothing. As he’d said, words weren’t enough. Instead he dropped Caledyr at her feet. It landed wth a violent crack.

  Do not give up the sword.

  The thought was a siren so strong he took a step forward before he realised. Six looked from Tom’s feet to his face and Tom wanted to pretend nothing had happened. But that would be a lie too. So he took a step back. And another one.

  Do not give up the sword.

  Tom refused to be moved. You are not my master.

  The sword was quiet.

  So was the garden.

  “So. You won’t carry the sword.” It was Brega who spoke. She sounded indifferent to it all. “We still need to get to Cairnagwyn. Break the monoliths.”

  But Tom kept his eyes on Six and Katharine. They looked at the sword on the ground. Neither of them seemed willing to touch it. Tom willed them to pick it up, to say something. He wanted them to smile and forgive him. He didn’t expect them to. But he dared to let himself hope.

  But Katharine turned away. And Six shook his head, but kept his gaze on the sword.<
br />
  Tom sighed. He couldn’t help but be disappointed. “First we sleep,” he said to Brega. “I’m exhausted.” And cold too. In his bones. He felt like he hadn’t slept in weeks. “We sleep,” he said again, picturing a warm bed. Even that soft thing in Cairnagan would have been heaven. Instead he moved to his saddlebag, lay down, used it as a pillow as he had for weeks. “And when we wake, everything changes.”

  He closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Then he would explain. But instead he fell asleep.

  “So that’s it?” Emyr’s face was drawn, as usual. No. There wasn’t the pinch of pain. Just regret.

  They were stood outside a tent. It was cold. And dark. And windy. Tom wanted to be anywhere else but there. Not because it was cold and dark and windy. But because he was the reason Emyr looked so sad.

  But he said nothing. Why did he say nothing?

  “I had higher hopes for you, Tom,” Emyr said. And he gave him a look that betrayed bitter disappointment. “There’s a reason I asked you to carry that sword.”

  “Was there a reason you didn’t warn me about it?”

  Emyr blinked a blink as slow as a glacier. “Yes.”

  Tom didn’t say anything. He looked aside. He touched the sword at his hip, took his hand away. But the sword was quiet. Silent. Like a child watching its parents fight.

  “Responsibility isn’t something you pick up and put down when you tire of it, Tom.”

  “I know.”

  “I need you to deal with this.”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “You need to find a way.”

  Emyr looked so lost. So sad. So alone. Tom wanted to help him. But instead he said, “This is your strength. This is what you do. You’re the legendary king of Tir. I’m just Tom.”

  Emyr closed his eyes and whispered, “Stop.” He took a breath. And another. Like he was remembering how to do so each time. Then he said, “Make it work.” And he disappeared into the tent.

  “Wake up.” Brega shook him, roughly as ever. His eyes felt full of sap, his mouth tasted awful and he was starving. He sat up. It was growing dark. “Is it late?”

  “Yes.” She handed him a flask and he drank, then swapped it for the bread in her hands. As he ate, she said, “Storrstenn wants to move.”