Ride the Storm

by Karen Chance

  “The old man’s friend asked about me, specifically why they would take me in when they didn’t even know what I was. There were so many Changelings then, some who grew up to be dangerous, that it was a fair question.”

  I nodded.

  “But the old man said he wasn’t worried. My father had dropped me off, and my father was human. Making my mother the fey—or part fey, as he’d been told—in this instance.”

  “The opposite of the usual situation.”

  “Yes. The old man believed that she was some tavern wench or farmer’s daughter, a descendant of one of the Returned that my father had lain with for a night or two. Then passed by the same way in a year and realized he had a son. One he was willing to support in case I turned out to have any magic.”

  I didn’t say anything. That was uncomfortably close to the truth.

  “He gave them money and a name—Myrddin. But he never gave them hers. The old man joked that he wasn’t sure he even knew it—or that she knew his.” Pritkin’s tone was light, but his jaw was tight. He saw me notice, and relaxed it. “I would want any child of mine to know, that’s all.”

  “So you make sure, if things are getting a little heated—”

  “To ask. Although I have usually done so before that!”

  I remembered that he’d introduced himself to me, the first time we met here, despite it being in a somewhat . . . compromising . . . situation. He hadn’t gotten my real name then, but he’d been persistent. Because he’d want any child of his to know who he was, where he’d come from, what he was. Instead of growing up never knowing anything, like he had done.

  And, okay, right then I genuinely hated Rosier.

  “Hold on!” Pritkin said, a hand on his fake hair, and I realized that I’d been combing a little too hard. Like enough to pull out a small patch of fur, or whatever the matted thing was made of.

  I frowned at the comb. Even when wearing a wig, Pritkin had terrible hair. It was like he was cursed.

  “Your turn,” he said, and for a moment, I didn’t know what he meant.

  “You said it would be difficult?” he prompted.

  I winced.

  But he’d just told me something uncomfortable, and very personal, so . . .

  “It’s hard to explain,” I repeated. “You don’t know him.”

  “Ah. A rival.” He looked like he’d just figured something out. “Do you love him?”

  “That’s a strange question.” I went back to work, trying to cover the bald spot.

  “And an easy one. If you’re together, of course you love him.”

  “I . . . yes. Of course.”

  “That doesn’t sound very sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “It’s just that you hesitated.”

  “I did not!”

  “All right.”

  I combed fur for a moment. “It just . . . for a long time, there were so many things I didn’t know about him. We didn’t talk much, and when we did, it never seemed to be about anything. We’d have these conversations, but later, I couldn’t remember us actually saying anything. And then, when he finally did . . .”

  “When he did?”

  I put the comb down and picked up a pot of something I’d noticed when I was doing my own makeup. “What is this?”

  “Putty. They use it to make bruises and scars, and to change the shape of facial features. Harder than wearing a mask, but it lets the audience see the eyes.”

  “Hold still,” I told him, and slathered some on his most memorable feature.

  “You have to move quickly, or it will set up,” Pritkin said, sounding slightly worried. And slightly nasal.

  “I know how to do makeup,” I said, but sped up a little. I had a lot of ground to cover.

  “This man, he is older than you?” he asked, after a minute.

  I snorted. “You could say that.”

  “What’s so funny? Is he . . . very old?” Pritkin frowned.

  “Let’s just say that, in age, experience, and knowledge, he pretty much outclasses me. Or maybe I just don’t know what I’m doing. He’s my first relationship, and I don’t think I’m doing it right. Sometimes I wonder what he’s even doing with me. And then . . .” I swallowed and looked away, putting the little pot back in place as an excuse.

  “And then?”

  “And then sometimes I think I know,” I said shortly.

  “That does sound complicated.”

  “It is.”

  “Too complicated, for a first relationship.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “First relationships are supposed to be easy. Simple. Fun.”

  “Fun.”

  “Yes, fun.” He tilted his head, which made his fake nose go all wonky. He waggled it back and forth, until it resembled a lying Pinocchio’s. I sighed and pulled it off. “Don’t you like to have fun?”

  “Yes, but that’s . . . Relationships are supposed to be serious.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because you’re talking about spending your life with someone!”

  “Someone who’s not any fun.”

  “He’s fun!”

  “You sound defensive.”

  “I’m not,” I said, and grabbed a rag to remove the rest of the nose. “He’s fun when he has time to be. It’s just . . . he’s busy. So am I.”

  Pritkin pursed his lips at me. “This relationship of yours sounds like a lot of work. I’m glad I’m not so busy. Or so complicated.”

  “You’re plenty complicated!”

  “Not at all. When I’m hungry, I eat. When I’m tired, I sleep. When I see a pretty girl, looking at me with eyes as dark as the ocean, with hunger in them, so much hunger . . . I oblige.”

  I stared down into burning green eyes for a moment, and then looked away again.

  “That’s because you’re . . .” An incubus, I didn’t say, because there was a possibility he didn’t know yet. “Young.”

  “Yes. So are you.”

  Yeah, right. “I don’t feel like it much lately.”

  “Then feel like it now.” He saw my expression, and laughed. “Not like that. Well, unless you change your mind. But there’s other ways to have fun, you know.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like this.” And he pushed open the back door with his foot.

  I looked at him with alarm. “What are you doing?”

  We were still moving, which didn’t stop him from catching hold of the roof and somehow vaulting up on top. And then reaching down, when I peered out the back, and grasping my arms. “This,” he said, grinning.

  “Um,” I said, because the ground was suddenly looking very hard.

  And very far, when he pulled me up in one fell swoop, like flying. Depositing me beside a fat guy with a tambourine and maybe three teeth. All of which he bared at me in a lopsided grin. Pritkin rapid-fired some introductions, and then plopped a straw hat down on my head, probably because the gate was coming up.

  There were people lining the road on both sides, and running to catch up, like it was Mardi Gras and we were the only float. The girls laughed and waved, some guy went to town on a lyre, and in a minute, the craziness had infected me, and I was laughing, too. And trying to hold on to my hat, before the wind sent it flying.

  Pritkin snatched it out of the air and put it back in place, green eyes gleaming.

  “If he gets you, I get this much,” he said, and kissed me while the girls laughed and flashed the guards, and the tambourine shook, and the wagon trundled through the gate, unopposed.

  And that was how we entered the city.

  Chapter Fifty

  The players were housed in tiny plain rooms off the kitchen, which seemed to make everybody happy.

  “Used to sleeping under the stars, or with
his foot in m’face,” one of the girls told me, hiking a thumb at the tambourine guy. “This is luxury.”

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” the lyre player, a tall man with sharp cheekbones, said. “Dinner’s at sundown. Then we’re up.” He looked at Pritkin. “Why don’t you start taking everything to the main hall?”

  I guessed that was for the benefit of the kitchen staff, despite the fact that none of them seemed to be paying us any attention. Until a frazzled girl came over, with sweat on her brow, and handed me a wooden tray. “Take this up if you’re going.”

  “You take it,” the cook said, bending over a pot on the fire. “Don’t be giving your tasks to those who have their own.”

  “But she’s going anyway—”

  “And doubtless will be carrying her work with her.”

  “Not with those arms,” the kitchen maid said, looking at me critically. “Don’t they feed you where you’re from?”

  She grabbed my pathetic excuse for biceps, but before I could say anything, the cook had turned around. He was a kind-looking older man, but was clearly tired of repeating himself. “Why does everything have to be an argument with you?”

  “I’m not arguing,” she argued. “But my feet are killing me.”

  “You’re arguing while the food’s getting cold. Now take it up—”

  “But I must have been up and down those stairs fifty times today.”

  “The fey take you, girl! If I have to tell you again—”

  “Fey don’t want her,” a young man said, looking up from chopping something. “Too lazy, and whines too much.”

  “I’ll show you lazy—” she said, and started for him.

  “’Pona!” The cook was looking genuinely angry now. “The princess isn’t feeling well, and she’s waiting for her food!”

  “All right, all right, I’ll take it,” the girl said sullenly, and reached for the tray.

  I pulled it back. “I’ll take it,” I said, giving the cook what I hoped was a winning smile. “Where is she, again?”

  The stairs turned out to be every bit as much of a bitch as the girl had claimed, stone, steep, and slippery. And packed. I kept being buffeted to one side or the other, but Pritkin couldn’t help much. He was carrying a pitcher of ale on one shoulder and a heavy roll of painted canvas on the other, where they could help to hide his face.

  “We lost him . . . remember?” I panted. “You could probably ditch the disguise.”

  “You just want help carrying that tray.”

  “Which doesn’t . . . make it any less true.”

  “You don’t lose a fey lord that easily,” he informed me. “He’ll be back, and it would be well for both of us if we have the staff when he does. Speaking of which—”

  “Later.”

  Pritkin glanced around at all the people, many of whom were shooting us annoyed looks for blocking half the stairs. “Soon.”

  The main hall was like the rest of the castle: utility combined with plundered beauty. There were numerous long tables and benches, simple, sturdy things, without adornment. Like the iron sconces on the walls, which a prop department would have sent back for being too plain. But the big gray blocks of the floor were intercut with areas of intricate tile work, some featuring vines, others with geometric shapes, none of them matching. Like someone had dug them out of other floors and brought them here, plunking them down like so many area rugs.

  They gave a weird, funky vibe to the place, colorful and eclectic.

  Likewise, the walls weren’t bare stone, as the movies had taught me to expect. Red plaster with a green border circled three sides of the large room, decorated with banners embroidered with red dragons. The fourth wall was white, but not plain. A faded mural of a woman inside a silver circle looked down at us benevolently, metallic paint still glinting in spots, here and there.

  “Arianrhod, Lady of the Silver Wheel,” Pritkin told me. “The king’s father had it brought here, block by block, from the old bathhouse. Said she had a kind face.”

  And a familiar one, I thought, staring upward.

  “She’s also known as the goddess of the moon,” he added.

  “I know.”

  We went through an archway and up a flight of curving stairs, to a wide hallway with a skinny guard. He was slumped against an arched door, looking bored. But he straightened up quickly enough when we approached.

  “Dye your hair, then, Myrddin?” he asked while checking us for weapons.

  Pritkin sighed. “I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention to any fey that you saw me.”

  “In trouble again, are you?” the guard asked, amused, and peered under the cover of the tray Pritkin was carrying, since we’d switched loads after the hall.

  “Roast pork with sage, lamb and nettle stew, blackberries and cream, ale,” Pritkin told him.

  The guard looked wistful. “When’s our dinner, then?”

  “I was told sundown,” I said.

  “Aye, but we won’t eat then, will we? What with the hall packed with guests.” He looked at the pork, which did smell heavenly. “Probably should check that for poison—”

  I slapped his hand.

  It was unthinking, and could have been a big mistake, but he just sighed. “Worth a try.”

  And with that, we swept in.

  As the king’s half sister, Morgaine was housed in the royal apartments, which looked like a fey had designed them, since they followed each other like cars on a train. And I guessed this was the station, where several trains met, what we’d have called a study. I walked slowly forward, trying not to stare like a fangirl, and probably failing spectacularly. Because it was exactly like I’d imagined. Exactly.

  There were parts I recognized from the shard of mirror I’d found at Nimue’s: the thick oak slab Arthur was using for a desk, the great stone fireplace, the mural I’d glimpsed a tiny piece of, which turned out to be a cavalry charge done in hasty sketches and vibrant with life. And something that had been out of view of the mirror, something over the mantel, something that looked like . . .

  I stopped dead in the middle of the room, my heart pounding. “Is . . . is that—”

  “The king’s great sword,” Pritkin confirmed. “A gift from the Lady upon his accession.”

  “You mean . . . Excalibur?” I whispered.

  Pritkin looked confused. And said something that the spell didn’t translate, but which sounded like he was clearing his throat. I glanced at him. “What?”

  He repeated the sound, which I guessed hadn’t been a mistake, after all. “It means Hard Lightning in the old tongue,” he told me. “You see the chimeras, on the hilt?”

  I nodded. What looked like two lions, if lions had birds’ wings and snakes for tails, twined together to form the grip. They were cast in bronze, and so finely wrought that I could see the individual scales on the serpents, the feathers on the wings, and the ripples in the lion’s muscles. It was breathtaking.

  “They’re nothing compared to the blade,” Pritkin said softly. “A wondrous thing, like no other, bright as flame.”

  I glanced around at the empty room. “Could . . .” I licked my lips. “Do you think we could see it?”

  He chuckled. “Not according to legend.”

  “What?”

  “It is said that the wielder is protected, but for everyone else, the blade is dreadful to look upon, a sword of fire that blinds an enemy—or a whole host—before it cuts them down.”

  “Blinds them,” I repeated, and suddenly, that searing brightness I’d experienced in Nimue’s rooms made more sense. Arthur must have returned during the attack and unsheathed the blade in front of the mirror. Half blinding me, and forcing Jo to run off because she could no longer see to fight.

  I blinked, realizing that my life had been saved by King Arthur, wielding Excalibur. And Billy Joe’s words came
back to me. Yeah, you gave up a lot for this job, but sometimes . . . it was almost worth it.

  Pritkin was looking at me. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me what this is all about?”

  “I—” I began, and then stopped, at the sound of raised voices from somewhere nearby.

  We left the tray on the desk and moved into the next room. It was a sitting type with a loom in a corner, which I assumed wasn’t Arthur’s. And another door, which was partially open.

  But it was enough to show me the king, striding up and down, still in the armor he’d ridden out in. It was bronze, and shone redly in the setting sun through a bank of long, tiny windows. The reddish light glazed his blond hair as well, and flashed in his eyes when he suddenly turned—to face Morgaine, sitting on the edge of a divan.

  I quickly retreated slightly.

  “It’s not a matter of what I want,” he said harshly. “I cannot hold this country without help! The Saxons are too many, and their weapons are too good. And many of them also had family in service of the empire. They’re not like the local chiefs; our tactics don’t surprise them—”

  “I understand—”

  “Do you? Then why ask this of me? Why ask for what I cannot give?”

  “I’m asking for time only,” Morgaine said, her voice calming. “Grandmother will come around. She has no choice. Be patient—”

  I felt Pritkin tug on my arm, and glanced up, to see him looking troubled. I guess he hadn’t signed on to eavesdrop on his king. I had no such problem, but if Arthur unexpectedly stormed out, we were going to be in trouble. I looked around and then moved to the darker shadows behind the door, the only real choice. It meant I couldn’t see inside anymore, but I could hear just fine.

  What are you doing? Pritkin mouthed.

  “Then you care for us so little?” Morgaine was saying. “That you would sell us to our enemies?”

  “You chose the fey side of our heritage. I chose the human,” Arthur replied. “But I am hardly so cruel. I care for both; I am working for both. You must trust me—”

  Pritkin was still looking pointedly at me, waiting for an answer I couldn’t give. So I gestured at the next room, where Arthur had just done it for me.