“Tire you,” he said.
Like a spell those words brought Tom’s aches and pains and fatigue to the fore. His fingers felt ready to let Caledyr drop, his legs ready to fold and let him sink to the blessedly cool floor.
Draig’s thrust was quick and nimble and Tom had to slap it aside, the steel ringing from the old stone wall.
Another thrust. Another. Forcing Tom to stumble up the steps. And then his heart sank; he’d reached the top all too soon. He was in open space.
“Nowhere is there to run, Tom.”
Tom had no breath for a reply. Just swing the sword. That was all he could do. Swing and parry and retreat. Survive. Survive long enough to find a way out of this. Each movement felt like his last, but somehow he found just a little more, just enough for one more swing. And another. And another.
Then he took another step back and chill stillness cut through his thoughts like an aurochs through farmhands. And the shock was enough for Draig to step forward and, with a twist and a flip of his blades, snatch Caledyr from Tom’s numb hands.
Tom watched the sword fly and watched his life fly with it. Watched it clatter to the stone floor. Watched Idris pick it up like he was accepting a gift.
It was over.
He almost didn’t dare breathe, but he was too tired to stand a moment longer. He sank to his knees, looked down at the floor. The top of the monolith, flush with the floor of this tiny chamber. Separated from his skin by mere fabric.
“Finished.” Draig said. Tom didn’t dare look up. Couldn’t look into the face of his death.
“Our thanks to you, Draig.” Idris cradled the sword, like a baby. “We shall see you amply rewarded.”
“Have I reward enough.” Draig placed his half-sword under Tom’s chin, forcing him to look up into his eyes. It was frightening, to know there was a being in Tir that was so pleased to see him defeated, broken, finished. And yet how long since he had worn such an expression when looking on terrified Westerners? Was this his reward, for the work he had done across the kingdom? He shivered, though whether it was the memory of what he had done, the sweat cooling on his back, or the feel of the monolith beneath him, he wasn’t sure.
“Don’t kill him.” The words burst from Katharine like she was a burst dam. “Please.”
She begged for his life. It wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t have to. Not on top of everything else.
Draig looked at her and frowned. “Killing is not my thought.”
It was like a beam of sunlight. Draig wasn’t going to kill him. And he was already on top of the monolith.
Find an advantage.
He looked around the chamber, a tiny little room at the very tip of the palace. Empty, bare. Save the sarcophagus behind him, in the very centre of the monolith. Worn with age, like Dolorio’s. But with the effigy of a woman, lying as if asleep. A human woman.
Eirwen.
He who finds Eirwen will deliver her king.
That was it. That was the answer.
“Tir owes you a debt.” Idris was grave, the statesman again, back straight, face sober. “You have made the world a safer place.”
“Such an oath I swore to my Shield.”
“And I call you oathbreaker.” Neirin wasn’t angry. Wasn’t sad. He had a haunted look, like he had seen this before. “You stand in opposition of your Shield.”
“Broken is my Shield.” Draig spat the words with venom Tom had never heard from him before. “Did you break his bones, to make fast your climb to his throne.”
Neirin had never looked so small. So chastened.
Focus.
The sword was right. And an idea was taking shape. He couldn’t break the monoliths. But the dragon had said he need only break the magic that bound them. What you feel, you can affect.
And there was someone else who could stop the fay.
Draig and Neirin were arguing. Tom dared to shuffle his knees, inching back from the elf’s sword. But the sarcophagus was too close. He couldn’t get far enough away. Draig could slit his throat before he’d even begun to undo the magics. Before he’d even discovered if it was possible.
He almost gave up. Wasn’t it safer, to leave the monoliths as they were? Wouldn’t Tir be safer? Under threat from the West, yes. But safe from the fay. The two realms firmly separated.
Until the fay manipulated someone else into freeing them. And the dragon had told Tom he would meet another. How could he look that dragon in the eye if he left them enslaved?
“You’re right.” Neirin sounded hoarse, like he’d been yelling. He held himself carefully, as if he was fragile, and his eyes were wet inside his mask. “I broke my father’s bones. It was an accident. But I did what I thought was best for my people.”
What he thought was best. Tom could do no less.
He met Katharine’s eye. Apologised as best he could without words.
She shook her head. “No, Tom.”
Draig turned to face him. “Finished, Tom.” It was more than a reminder. More like a command. “Are you finished.”
His body ached and hurt and bled in a dozen places. And he was tired. So tired. But he had to do this. He understood now what Regent had said about sacrifice. For a greater good.
“I am beaten,” he admitted. And he smiled, because he felt lighter for saying it. “But it is not finished.”
He reached for the cold, still stone. Neck tingling, just waiting for the touch of steel. Waiting for the end.
You’ll be surprised what you can do when you have to do it.
Katharine said, “No.” But it was too late. He touched the monolith with his fingertips.
And everything disappeared.
Chapter 24
Tom was battered by a storm, briney waves slapping walls and flooding streets. No, it was a gale, shaking stone walls and banging shutters. No, a thunderstorm, jagged forks of lightening and crashing thunder. A riot, voices and bodies surrounding him, he was crouched on the ground with his arms over his head but they kicked and shoved and where was his mother? A pitched battle, the ring of swords, the solid sounds of shields against flesh and bone, armoured fists versus callused ones, ride them down my people, the elfs shall rule us no longer.
You drown, said a voice. Old. Familiar. Alien. As soon as it spoke, Tom knew it was right. The sensations were too much like a rising tide, he had no arms, no legs to find a hold, he couldn’t hold his nose above water, he would drown.
Calm. Be at peace, it said.
The thud of a thousand boots marching. A cluster of armed men hiding in the trees. A street full of Easterners, celebrating with noise and drink and dancing. A howling desert, air full of red sand, an eternal storm rolling across the empty expanse.
A different voice said, fight.
Caledyr. A shining beacon. A bright, coppery lantern in his mind. Too bright. Blinding. He pushed it aside.
Hatred, a poisonous spike of it. They were discovered. Tom saw them, clear as day, Athra and Storrstenn, hauled to their feet by the watch. They spat his name, cursed him.
Regent stood in his tower and watched armies march east. Outwardly he smiled and told someone this was a glorious time, that they were making a world fit for Emyr’s return. But something pinched his eyes, quirked down the corners of his mouth.
Find a centre, said the unknown voice.
No, not unknown. It was the dragon. The one he had spoken to in the valley. He ran to it. No. He didn’t run. He had no legs, nor arms nor a body. Just his thoughts. They raced to the dragon.
Shelter me? he asked. And the noise of Tir receded, but only because the roaring chaos around the dragon drowned it out. It could protect him from the cacophony, yes. But already he could feel the raw magics washing his self away, soaking him up like bread in a thin soup.
Caledyr. Caledyr could help. He pushed away, falling back into the maelstrom. And the sword was waiting, golden and pure, there at the top of the Western monument.
Fight, it told him. Fight back.
So he tried t
o push against the world, and the child in the centre of the riot cried out in terror and the elfs and Marchmen faltered in their battle and the celebrating Easterners staggered from more than drink and Regent lifted his head to the wind and whispered, “Tom?”
But it was a pebble dropped in the sea and he was still tossed by the waves. Unable to take a breath without lungs, unable to secure his footing without feet.
End it, the sword said.
Yes, end it. That was why he was here. Break the magics.
And by thinking it, he could see it again. Great coiled cords, links that connected each monolith to the next. A network of pathways, threads in the web. And between them, what magic was left in the world, shepherded by the black stone. He reached to pluck at the threads, to snap them.
Regent was striding back into his tower.
The riot was all the more violent. Something was burning. The child’s forehead was bleeding.
An old woman dropped her needlework and couldn’t find it again with her milky eyes.
Tom flailed again. He could do this. He knew if he could just touch a thread, it would part for him.
Children chased each other over a stoney shore, laughing with wild, untamed glee.
Two lovers blocked out the world in a hot, sweaty embrace.
Far to the south, an elf stopped his threshing and stared up at the sun, anticipating a cool cider with his luncheon.
Too much. It was overwhelming. More so than at Cairnabren, as if every sensation in Tir was channelling down the threads to this one monolith. Each time Tom reached out he was assaulted by a hundred different sights and thoughts and feelings. Like having a dozen foresights all at once.
Help, he asked. But he had no mouth to say it and there were no ears to hear it.
He couldn’t make sense of the visions anymore. They blurred into one, Regent was in a riot, an old blind woman in the tower, the laughing children searched for their needlework, a farmer scaled the mountain, a shepherd ushered sand across the sea and mountains laughed as they chased each other across the sky. He had failed. All that was left was to return to his body, back in Cairnagwyn. But he couldn’t find it. He was lost. He cast out, in every direction, trying to find his way back. There was too much noise, too much confusion.
But not there.
At the edge of his perception laired something cool and dark. Sinister. Untrustworthy. But quiet. Old. Still.
Why should we help you?
I can’t find my way back.
Then we are safe.
The Whispering Woods. Dark and still and old and malevolent. And afraid. If you do it, you will kill us.
I won’t hurt you.
Look at where we are.
Between strands. Like an island in the sea. Or a mountaintop amongst clouds. The monoliths pushed the magic back, but sometimes they created pockets. Faerie Circles. But if the Circles were puddles, the Whispering Woods was a lake of magic. And if he broke the monoliths, the dam would be broken. The magic could leak away, and the leave the trees dry.
You see? You will kill us.
He would. He saw it now. They needed the monoliths to survive. Without them, they would become trees again. Quiet and still and dumb.
So we will not help you.
Tom pondered what to do.
And realised he could ponder.
There was no assault, no maelstrom of sights and sounds. It was all still there, should he dive back in. But the Woods was a safe haven. They had drawn him close and, unwittingly, given him a space to collect himself again. Now he could see the monoliths and the threads they drew across Tir. Rather than thrashing like a fly caught in a web, now he could stand back and pluck at it.
No. Please.
Did the trees deserve to die? No. But did the dragons deserve slavery? Did Tir deserve to be conquered and terrified?
Would you be uprooted and planted in a box?
Tom reached. Curled a thought around the nearest thread and tugged.
The web grew dimmer. He plucked another, and another, and could feel the monoliths separate from each other. They still pushed the magic aside. But it was disordered now. There was no network to manipulate. Just stone.
The Woods wailed, an agony that cut at Tom, and he hurt and keened. He left them. Now he could see the network, he could find his way back. He plucked as he went, but it was no longer necessary. The threads were failing by themselves now. So was his sensation of Tir. Now the threads were a trail of breadcrumbs that could lead him home, only a flock of crows were eating them up. He hurried, racing back to Cairnagwyn and his body. Could he become trapped here? Wherever here was?
Yes, said the dragon. You would be adrift, a thought in the breeze.
A gust from intangible wings sped him on his way. We thank you, the dragon said.
And there, the golden beacon Caledyr shone, like a lighthouse in the dark. The central monolith was still too cold, still too solid. But it was alone now. And there, on its surface, was a hand. His hand. His flesh and blood. He stepped into it, putting it on like a set of clothes he hadn’t worn in years. It felt odd, constrictive, like one of Regent’s outfits, pulling in awkward places. But it was comforting nonetheless. He remembered how to breathe and took a sweet, cool breath. He opened his eyes. He moved his fingers.
He was alive.
He looked up and everyone was where he had left them. No-one had moved.
“It’s done,” Tom told them.
“What is?” Neirin asked.
“The dragons,” Tom said. “They’re free.”
“They are?” Neirin blinked, looked up, around, down again. He seemed disappointed.
Tom’s body remembered its hurts in a rush; he had to steady himself against Eirwen’s sarcophagus and close his eyes against sudden dizziness.
“You’re hurt.” Katharine knelt beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder. She was like an anchor, real and vibrant against the silent monolith. He put a hand on hers, letting her warmth centre him, letting her pulse set his thoughts.
Then he remembered how he’d felt when thwarted and peered at Draig. The elf looked defeated, staring at Tom like it was the most upsetting sight he’d ever seen. His swords shifted as he gripped them tighter and Tom tensed, ready to push Katharine out of harm’s way.
Draig didn’t move. He just said, “Bring you us to doom.” Tom had expected fury, violent attack. But there was just disappointment.
“Maybe.” Tom could still feel the monolith beneath his feet. Feel the network fraying, like a far-off song. But the monoliths were still there. Still pushing the magics back. “But not yet.”
“What do you mean?” Katharine asked.
“The monoliths aren’t broken.” Tom pushed himself to his feet. Eirwen’s grace, he had never felt so terrible. He turned to the sarcophagus, stared at the stone woman lying there. He invoked her name so often. He felt there was some sort of debt. “All I did was undo the strands between them.”
“That will be enough.” Dank sounded almost scared to speak, his voice a reverent hush. He gazed at the sarcophagus too. “The barriers will be weaker. We can push them down.”
“In time.” Melwas had looked for Eirwen for so long. Whoever had hidden her here, where no fay could come, had clearly loved her very much. And she was beautiful, even in stone. No wonder so many songs had been written about her. “That gives us time to stop them.”
“Stop them?” It was painful to hear the hope in Katharine’s voice. “How?”
He who finds Eirwen will deliver her king. And hadn’t he had foresights of Emyr? In snow and dark labyrinths. Alive. Unwounded. His heart leapt at the very idea of it. Stopping the fay was too big for mere mortals. It needed a figure from legend. Emyr’s bones, they needed a miracle. How do you fight an immortal, invisible enemy? Fear and excitement and exhaustion made him bend down, and Katharine helped hold him while he placed a kiss on Eirwen’s forehead.
“Bless me with your grace,” he whispered to her. How she might do that from
the grave, he couldn’t say. But he felt better for asking. Stronger. Capable of turning to the others and telling them,
“We’re going to steal King Emyr from Faerie. Right now.”
Epilogue
There was a Faerie Circle inside an abandoned room in the palace.
“We could have walked right in here at any time?” Brega growled. She was pale and her jaw was clenched against the pain. She needed rest.
“We weren’t to tell you.” Dank looked embarrassed.
“Why not?”
“Because it wouldn’t have been entertaining enough,” Tom said. Months of travel. All the fights and the hurt and the loss. All of it could have been avoided if not for the fay’s warped sense of fun. He stepped into the room, dusty and filled with broken furniture. There was barely enough room for everyone.
“I wish I could come,” Brega said.
“No you don’t,” Tom replied. He crouched beside her, gave her a smile. “Your place is with your Shield.”
“And I must stay,” Neirin said. But his expression suggested he rathered it were otherwise. “Now is the time for diplomacy. For peace.”
Tom nodded. Peace from warring mortals. Peace from predatory immortals. A war on two fronts. He stood and extended his wrists. “It has been an honour, Lord Neirin.”
The elf smiled. Not happy. Not sad. An elf just starting to find himself again. He extended both wrists and said, “The gratitude of the Eastern Angles goes with you.” Then he took Tom’s hand and shook it. “Thank you, Tom.”
“Take care of them,” Brega told him.
He could only say one thing in response. “Take care of him.”
She smiled, open and without edge, and their farewell was done.
“A request, Your Majesty?” Tom turned to Idris, who was trying to look serene but had anger bubbling behind his eyes. “Free the dwarfs.”
Idris smiled like Tom had suggested he sprout wings and fly away. “Many Western lives will be lost because of you.”
So why do anything for Thomas Rymour? “We have a long road to travel.” He had foreseen mountains. Perhaps the United Provinces in the north. “And if I find any news of your daughter, I will do my best to see her returned to you.”
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