"They need us,” Gravinn said.
"Kunnustenn’s dead." Footsteps crunched towards Tom. "I don’t care about anything else."
And why would he? Tom recognised the anger in Jarnstenn’s voice. It was the same wordless, directionless fury he felt when he thought of Katharine dying. The desire to blame someone, to hurt them, to make them pay. Except there was no-one to blame for her death. No-one but himself.
He almost let Jarnstenn walk past. Let him be alone with that anger. Let him grieve. Let him be. He’d already lost everything. Wasn’t it a torture to make him stay? To demand more from him?
But Tom had lost Elaine and Degor, his wife and son. He’d lost his world, he'd lost Faerie, and he might lose Katharine and Rose too.
We do what must be done.
Tom stood and said, quietly, but loud enough that Gravinn would hear, "Go back to sleep, Jarnstenn. We still have a ways to go before we turn back south."
"You might." Jarnstenn didn’t stop walking. He pulled no sled, and carried what looked like a lightly-packed bag. He couldn’t possibly have enough to make it back to Cairnakor on foot.
"You won’t survive the journey back,” Tom said, and stepped into Jarnstenn’s path. The dwarf stopped, but didn’t look up. The firelight was weak here. They were all shadows and darkness.
"Kunnustenn’s dead," he spat.
"I know. And I am sorry. So sorry."
"I don’t want you to be sorry, I want you dead and him standing here instead."
There was a cold silence. Even the wind was quiet. But Tom knew that Jarnstenn wasn’t threatening violence. He knew exactly how the dwarf felt.
Fight.
No. Now is not the time to fight. "I didn’t kill Kunnustenn,” Tom said.
"It’s your fault he’s dead."
Tom replied to the dwarf’s unspoken words. "It’s not your fault."
Jarnstenn said nothing. Then he sniffed. His shoulders slumped a little, and he was no longer challenging Tom. When he spoke, his voice was shakey. "He lived in his books and his learnings. Real things were a different world to him. He needed me to bring him to that world."
Say nothing. Let silence do the talking.
"And when you came along with your damn stupid quest, it was like you made his books real. You gave him something I couldn’t. And I didn’t give him what I should’ve.” The bag slid to the ground. Jarnstenn stood there like he was being kept up by a single, unsteady thought. "He’d thank you, you know. The way he went, looking for Cairnarim, taken by invisible Faerie creatures. He’d say he couldn’t ask for more." Jarnstenn drew ragged breaths. He wasn’t far now. "I couldn’t see them. Couldn’t hear them. Couldn’t do nothing to stop them." Finally he looked up at Tom, and said, "Tell me what I could have done."
"Nothing." It was the kindest, cruellest thing to say. "You did everything you could."
Jarnstenn sagged until his forehead rested against Tom’s belly, and the dam broke. Tom placed one hand on the back of the dwarf’s head, one on his back. Said nothing, and let the dwarf cry in the cold.
Gravinn was still at the fire when they returned to camp. Tom made a point of saying to Jarnstenn, gently, before he stepped inside his tent, "So you’ll stay?"
Jarnstenn nodded. "I want to tell Kun what Cairnarim looks like when I return to the ground. Whenever that might be."
Tom just nodded, bid him goodnight, and turned to Gravinn. She didn’t meet his eye. She was expecting anger, for letting Jarnstenn leave. He was angry. But not for that reason.
"You didn’t know I was there," he said to her.
She shook her head.
"Why not?"
She looked surprised. Offended? "You concealed yourself."
"An attacker would do the same."
She looked annoyed, but also aware she was on the back foot. "I was distracted by Jarnstenn."
"Then we can all sleep easy, as long as you aren’t distracted." Before she could say anything, he added, "Go and wake Dank for his watch."
“It’s not yet time."
"Go and wake him."
She scowled, stamped her way across the camp and gave Dank a brusque awakening before retreating to her own tent.
"Is it so late already?" Dank asked with a yawn. He stood by the fire, stretched, rubbed his arms. "I never feel like I’m sleeping enough lately."
Tom’s eyes were drooping, so he just nodded and yawned himself.
"What are you doing up?" Dank asked. "You’ve taken your watch already, haven’t you?"
Tom nodded. He’d had first watch, then slipped off to his hiding place. "Jarnstenn needed convincing to stay," he replied.
"I see." Dank tipped his head to one side. "Why is Gravinn upset?"
"I told her she needed to keep a better watch."
Dank nodded. Watched Tom as if appraising him, weighing him up. It made Tom uncomfortable. His discomfort only increased when he said, "I can’t decide if Maev would find you more interesting these days, or less."
It was the open, honest way he spoke of Maev’s interest in him, and inferred Tom’s own interest in her. He cleared his throat, asked, "What do you mean?" Because, despite himself, he still wanted Maev to desire him.
"A lot of her interest stemmed from how she could manipulate you." Dank didn’t couch his response in a soft tone or an apologetic expression. He didn’t even look at Tom, just poked at the fire instead. "I suspect it wouldn’t be so easy now. So would she be bored of you? Or would you represent a challenge?"
Tom hated how his heart still leapt for her approval. Perhaps that was why he said, "Her interest in us is all that keeps us safe."
Dank’s silence gave him time to realise what he had said. What he had let slip; that he had been speaking to the sprite. Iron nails. He’d been thinking of Maev instead of thinking of what he was saying. Distracted, he’d let an enemy thought slip through his mind and out across his tongue.
"And now he knows," whispered the wind.
"How would you know that, Tom?” Dank asked. Watching him carefully.
Cover it up. Lie. "I stabbed Melwas. I cannot believe he wishes me anything but dead."
Dank offered only a considered, "Yes."
"Someone must be speaking for us."
Dank stared at him. Rose to his feet. And finally asked, “Have you been speaking to our sprite?”
Our sprite. “Glastyn.” As if that was an answer. “He told me that Melwas and Mab are at war with each other.”
But Dank shook his head. “Tell me, Tom.” He started taking slow, steady steps, and Tom resisted the urge to back away. “Have you been speaking to our sprite?”
Dank’s words told Tom one thing: don’t tell the truth. So he stood strong, refused to look guilty, and dropped a hand to Caledyr. “You gave your faith to Emyr.”
Dank stopped one step away, and Tom could see the hunger in the other man’s eyes. He wanted his sprite. And he didn’t want it. “I did,” Dank managed.
“You want to be more than what the fay made you.”
“I do.” Dank looked aside, licked his lips. Nodded. “I do,” he repeated, trying to convince himself. And Tom wished he had sent Dank back with Esyllt and Hawne, sent him away from the temptation and let him make a life for himself without the fay. “I could see her once,” Dank muttered. “Just to say goodbye?”
Silence. Dank needed to fight this battle alone. Or did he? Tom had been fighting his own battle against Maev by himself for years. Perhaps it would have been easier if someone had helped him?
And the wind whispered, “You will never be free of them.”
So Tom reached out and gripped Dank’s upper arm. The other man started and met his eye. “You don’t need to see the sprite, Dank. You don’t need to talk to it. The fay are not your friends. I’m your friend, Dank. So I won’t tell you what to do. You can see the sprite, if you want. But I don’t think you should. Because you’re already more than they will ever let you be.”
Dank didn’t believe him. Not at firs
t. But Tom could see the other man persuading himself. Pushing aside his urges. Rebuilding his sense of self, squaring his shoulders, straightening his back. And when he nodded, he was firm and certain. “You’re right.”
Tom relaxed muscles he hadn’t realised were tensed.
“Thank you, Tom.”
“You’re welcome.” He clapped Dank’s arm. “I can leave you to take this watch, can’t I?”
Dank answered the question Tom hadn’t asked. “I won’t go near it.”
“Good.” Tom unstrapped Caledyr and the sword began to protest, and the wind told him he was a fool. But the gesture would give Dank more confidence than anything else he could do. So he handed it to the other man. “Watch over us while we sleep.”
He was just a few steps from his tent when Dank said, “I was angry with you.” Tom stopped. “For talking to my sprite. I was jealous.”
And the wind whispered, “He’s changed his mind. He’s picked them over you.”
Tom was unarmed. He’d just given the sword to Dank. So he didn’t move. Didn’t even turn. Just listened for the soft hiss Caledyr made when it was pulled from its scabbard. Please don’t draw it, he begged. Please, Dank.
“I was jealous,” the other man said again. “Is that how you feel when you see Maev with Midhir?”
It was something Tom didn’t want to think of, didn’t want to admit. “Yes.”
“Hmm.” There was no other sound, no drawn sword, and Tom allowed himself to look over his shoulder and watch Dank consider the apple pommel on Caledyr. “We aren’t the first people to try to seal away the fay. No-one has succeeded. But I think you’re right; if we stay true to each other, we can do it, can’t we?”
Tom gave the boy a grave nod, said, “I hope so,” and tried not to think of how he had let Maev embrace him outside Cairnakor.
That night, he dreamt disturbing dreams. Everyone knew he spoke to the fay. They cursed him for loving Maev. They shunned him and laughed at him, took away Caledyr, took away his hands and left him alone in the cold.
He stood with Brega in a small, dark room. "Which side do you fight on?" she asked.
Tom was exhausted the next morning, yet it seemed there was never any rest to be had. Mennvinn was reminding him she had no pain relief for Six. Gravinn was complaining there were no herbs to be found in this hideous canyon, Draig was moaning that another day with this wind might drive him to madness. Katharine was grumpy and uncomfortable. Six was in very obvious pain. Only Emyr and Jarnstenn gave Tom any peace; the old king remained withdrawn, and the dwarf was silent in his grief.
But all of them seemed to look to him to coax them into breaking fast, breaking camp, and moving on through the Chasm. He knew he was short with them. That he snapped and berated. But none of them seemed willing to be helpful. They acted as if moaning about their lot would somehow improve it.
"How do you improve the prospect of a cold, certain death?" whispered the wind.
They trudged, bellies carrying more water than food, and tried to ignore the wind. But it grew stronger, and louder, until it was like a bellow. You will fail, you will fall, turn back, give in, give up. Constant, unending, without even pause for breath. You lead them to their deaths. You lead them to their doom. You’ve seen it. You see her die. Your daughter will die too. And what do you do to prevent it? Secret conversations with your bottled fay, secret desires to lie with the Faerie Queen. Weak, foolish, liar, coward, traitor, fay-lover, untrue, disloyal, oath-breaker, death maker.
Fight.
But Tom didn’t need the sword to tell him to push back against the whispers. Seeing Jarnstenn’s grieving anger had woken Tom’s own fury. Yes, he had squandered his youth. He’d been a poor husband and a terrible father. He’d suffered years of silent degradation at the hands of the fay. He’d endured years of alienation in a Tir he didn’t recognise. He’d let himself be pushed and pulled and given orders by the fay, by Neirin, by Storrstenn, by Caledyr, even by Emyr.
"Yes," said the wind, "because you are weak, and nothing, and little more than a lost little man who has no strength of his own."
But he’d fought in merrow and Erhenni arenas. He’d been the scourge of the Kingdom. He’d brought back the legendary King Emyr and he’d pushed Melwas to his knees in Faerie. And he wouldn’t be turned back by a few nasty little whispers. No. This foul little magic was nothing, a hedge magician’s trick. He would stop the fay. Not because other people told him he had to. Not because he had anything to prove. Because he was protecting the people he cared about. Do you hear that, Rimestenn? Your cheap little magics are nothing. You won’t stop me. You won’t. You won’t.
And the whispers stopped. He took a few more steps before he realised there was no more wind. He looked up. There was no more Chasm, just an enormous set of doors.
They were easily three times as tall as Tom, set deep into the side of the mountain, and covered with sculptures and carvings. Gargoyles leapt from the surface of the stone, and dwarfs and elfs and men spoke and fought and displayed their strength of arms with faces so lifelike Tom half expected them to turn and speak. It seemed the longer he stared, the more detail appeared. The spaces between figures were filled with constellations of suns and stars and moons, the dragon that spanned both doors was covered in tiny, individually carved scales. And the gargoyles were not generic monsters; they were fay.
There was Puck, crawling down the door towards them, each hair of his fur individually carved. There was Melwas in the shape of the Black Knight Malvis, fighting an army of men and dwarfs and elfs yet looking out at his new, living audience. There was Fenoderee, looking like a malevolent swamp given limbs. There was Knocker, who haunted tunnels and mines, ready to strike his little anvil with his little hammer and lead travellers astray. Not one of the fay looked friendly or carefree. Each of them was openly hostile, each of them looking down at the exact spot they had stopped.
Only one figure looked aside: Morwen of Rhomer. Sat in a corner, faced away from her fellow decorations and her living audience, looking entirely unlike every other depiction of her that Tom had seen. Her curly hair was unbound and fell across her face; only her sharp nose was visible, and thin, sad, downturned lips. She wore billowing robes, not the beautiful dresses she was so often given in art and sculpture, making her formless save for one foot, bare and unadorned, toes pointed downwards. She wore none of her usual jewellery, displayed none of her usual confidence or bravado. The only reason Tom recognised her at all was her staff. Unlike Ambrose’s rude instrument, hers was artful, bearing the symbol of the crescent moon atop its clean, smooth length.
"Magnificent," Dank breathed. His eyes were wide as if he was trying to see it all before it disappeared. "Just magnificent."
He was right, of course. These creations were an incredible sight to behold. How many weeks had it taken to make just one? It was a shame they were hidden so far from sight; although they were somewhat frightening, with the fay looking ready to spring to life and cut down anyone within reach, these doors were a work of art. Katharine and Gravinn were already scribbling notes and rough sketches. Everyone else stared in wonder and appreciation. Except one.
"Pretty fakes," Jarnstenn said.
"What do you mean?" Tom asked.
"They’re not real doors." The dwarf waved a hand. "Just look at those hinges."
Tom looked, saw that, yes, there were elaborate hinges, each topped with a miniature fay. "What about them?"
"Hinges on this side means they’d open outwards."
"Right."
"Ain’t no room to open outwards."
He was right. Although the Chasm had widened on either side, there wasn’t space for these doors to fully open.
"Could we squeeze through enough space," Draig offered.
"Probably. But what fool would put all this effort into doors that don’t open properly?" Jarnstenn shook his head. "Not Rimestenn."
"He’s right." Emyr was almost squinting at the great doors, as if trying to see through them.
"This isn’t Rimestenn’s style."
"Are you saying this isn’t the entrance to Cairnarim?" Katharine made no effort to hide her disappointment.
"Ain’t no entrance to anywhere," Jarnstenn said.
"It’s a ruse." Emyr’s lips quirked in a humourless smile. "Rimestenn’s engines and contraptions were always half wonder, half illusion."
Illusion. "Is that why Morwen is there?" Tom asked.
"Possibly." Emyr cast a glance at Ambrose, still unwaking on his sled. What would he have to say about Rimestenn raising an effigy to his rival? How many statues stood of Ambrose in all of Tir? "But Rimestenn held no love for Morwen. I can’t imagine why he would put her here."
"And she looks wrong," Tom added. "Not like you described her."
"She does," Emyr agreed.
"It’s a marker," Katharine said. When everyone turned to look at her, she gestured at the paper in her hands. "When you create a path, you leave markers along its length so travellers know whether they should take a turn or carry on straight." She pointed at Morwen. "She’s a marker. She’s telling you which turn to take." She grunted the last and winced.
"What’s wrong?" Tom asked her.
"I’m fine." She shook her head, denying her own words.
"Is it the child?"
She shook her head and pointed at the doors. "Look for the door," she ordered him, but screwed up her face again and hissed.
This was it. "Rose is coming," he told her. "This is the beginning."
"You can’t give birth out here!" Mennvinn sounded almost scandalised.
"She’s not coming," Katharine said. "Not yet."
But she was wrong. Tom had seen the beginning of Degor’s birth. Elaine’s face had looked just like Katharine’s. This was it. His daughter was coming. "Mennvinn, do what you need to do. Make Katharine as comfortable as possible."
"Out here?"
Yes, she had a point. They needed to get inside. So Tom turned to the doors and said, "Morwen is telling us where to look." He followed the statue’s gaze, but it rested only on an empty crevice of rock. Nothing.
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 99