He’d stared at her for long seconds before the tears had flooded from his eyes, and she’d pulled his face to her bosom while he’d wept, drying his cheeks with her long raven hair. He had not cried since he’d been able to fly, and that had been long before he was grown. His mother had tolerated him because he was a changeling, but his father and siblings had rejected him. The other changelings had welcomed him, eventually raising him as their leader, but only because of his power. That same might had forced the king to accept him, to make certain he was allowed in the court. No one, however, had ever before shown that they cared for him. He did not think she could truly love him in the short time they had been married, but he was certain she was at least fond of him. He knew he certainly cherished her.
Whatever it was he felt, she had taken hold of his heart, and he could not deny what he wanted most was to simply be in her presence. Even when he was ensconced in his private sanctuary, knowing she was elsewhere in their home comforted him. It was a new sensation, and addictive at that, yet having experienced it, he would marry her again willingly. No glamor of Finaarva’s would be required.
When his tears had dried up, she had kissed him: not gentle and tender, but fierce and passionate, reminding him he was more than a changeling, he was a faery, a being of great power.
The following morning, he’d realized what he’d agreed to, but it had been too late to do anything but accept her plot. It was an efficient plan, if a bit long in the making, but lacked the duplicitous nature of the nefarious schemes he and Hagr had concocted over the centuries, and he feared it would not be enough.
♦ ♦ ♦
There were no sounds of attack, no thuds or crashes of Månefè leading an army through the ancient stump. It would take that many for his rival to force open the magically sealed oak door at the base of the stairs and subdue him.
It must be her! he thought. Anxiety still pounded.
“My master,” Hagr Twyllo croaked, bobbing its head, barely daring to look into Tigano’s face. “My master, listen to me. Before the mistress comes, listen to me!”
He looked down at the scrawny creature. Hagr’s orange eyes, always large, bulged like two giant fruit about to burst, and he paused.
“There is a newborn child in Lord Månefè’s home, and another lovely young babe in Lady Àibell’s family, both less than one week old. You know the archaic magic my master, the ancient enchantments of the changelings. Should you switch them…”
Tigano paused. The primitive pagan magic, outlawed even by Finaarva. Did he dare? He could hear the light tap of his wife’s shoes on the stone stairwell leading down from the stump. His heart skipped like a little child, and for a moment, he wondered if it was relief or joy.
“I promised her, Hagr. I must not involve her family…” He heard the weakness in his own voice, however. The goblin spoke of the oldest enchantment of the changelings, older even than shape changing, one of the elder magics of the faeries. It had not been done in centuries, forbidden by Oberon since the dragons had first brought them out of Ireland and to this new world they called Faery. It required sorcery of the darkest kind, using innocents as conduits by stealing their identities.
“I could do it, my master. The precepts…”
The air swirled lightly. She had opened the thick oak door at the base of the stairwell. He studied the hunched form of his diminutive servant with its wrinkled bald pate and ungainly body. Its protuberant eyes shone. He should strike down that ambition now, before she reached him, but the lure of the old magic gave him pause.
“The one who takes gains what is lost,” croaked Hagr in a harsh whisper. “The strength of your enemy becomes your strength, and your weakness becomes his so long as the spell lasts. You could be like the Old Ones of Earth…immortal even…”
The risk is great, he thought Is the reward greater? Could I truly be that powerful? Even the dragons feared the Old Ones.
The clip of her shoes on the grey stone slabs was drawing near.
“I cannot do this magic alone, and Àibell can know none of it,” he stated firmly, gazing intently into Hagr’s orange eyes.
“Master, only a faery can complete the spell.”
He stared down at his servant’s gangly figure. It bobbed on its heels, unable to hide its eagerness to begin. Before Àibell’s arrival, he would not have hesitated to employ black magic when the potential gain was so great.
I should stop this dark sorcery before it begins, tell Hagr to never speak of it again.
Instead, he merely said, “Go, escort your mistress to the bedchamber. I will greet her there.”
He wheeled, striding away quickly so he did not have to face her quite yet. By the gleam in the goblin’s eyes, he was certain Hagr had understood his emphasis on “I”. He knew he should have waited to hear Àibell’s report, but he needed to compose himself.
Why do I run? What am I afraid of? he asked himself as he marched rapidly, his head down. How can she affect me like this?
As he reached the bedchamber, he realized he was trembling. Forcing his eyes shut, he stood straight while inhaling deeply. He should be racing back to his wife, ordering Hagr to stay and attend to its mistress’s needs. Instead, he continued to calm himself.
Why is this so hard? I am the Lord Changeling of Finaarva’s Court! Isn’t this why we abandoned Oberon? To work our magic however we saw fit?
He took one more deep breath. The trembling had stopped. His heart beat slowly. This was how it should feel when he plotted.
So why does my heart ache?
♦ ♦ ♦
His magic had relit the fire and he was lounging on the divan, a flute of cool daisy nectar in one hand, when Hagr Twyllo entered, escorting Lady Àibell. Unexpected emotion shot through him at the sight of her pale, beautiful face with its large, sad eyes. He rose swiftly, poured a second glass, and offered it to her, a smile carefully layered on his face, hoping she would not see past it.
She accepted the drink gratefully, downing half of it in one unladylike gulp, before relaxing. He suddenly realized her long dark hair was slightly disheveled and she had a small cut above one eye. Bits of twigs stuck to her long dark travel cloak and her wings quivered slightly. Her face was taut. She had flown faster and harder than she should have.
Hagr Twyllo’s presence, however, sharply reminded him of the task he had implicitly commanded the goblin to do, of the ancient magic he so badly wanted to unleash himself. His eyes shifted between the two and he struggled to keep his composure.
I cannot do this thing. She is my wife and I made a promise. Anxiety roiled not only in his stomach but sprinted through his limbs as well. I should command it to wait in my chamber. I must tell it no!
He started to open his mouth, but his wife spoke first.
“Hagr, you are dismissed,” she said, speaking to the goblin as if it were worthy of respect. “Thank you for your kind welcome.”
The goblin bowed low, the wide grin on its face one of joy at her words. Then it glanced up at him, and Tigano saw the change in its bulbous eyes. Maliciousness returned, and the corners of its grin transformed into a smirk. He knew what would happen if he did not belay her order.
You are the master! he told himself. Don’t let it leave!
But his mouth would not work, and the small, wizened creature filed out of the bedchamber with a flourish of its hand so that the doors closed behind it.
Did it just flaunt its magic? What have I unleashed?
“Husband,” his wife said softly, one small hand reaching to his face, gently turning it back towards hers. She smiled at him, the warmth so genuine that he understood why the other servants obeyed her so willingly. He was torn between drawing her into his arms and racing after Hagr before it was too late.
He hesitated for only a moment before placing his own hand atop hers and returned her smile. Despite the turmoil threatening to tear him apart, his smile at least was genuine. He leaned down and kissed her deeply. He focused on her lips, steeling himse
lf as he enjoyed her affection until the goblin’s footsteps had receded completely.
“Husband!” she said as she finally pulled back from his embrace, but happiness lit her face, not any anger. “You were worried about me!”
“I was,” he answered, pleased that his concern was the only emotion she sensed. “Come, sit with me, and tell me what you’ve learned. Then we can celebrate your return.”
She followed him to the couch, holding his hands as they sat.
“Our plan is in place, Tigano. We will have success.”
“You found contacts then?”
“Lord Månefè has made many enemies. More than you.” She said the last with a sly glimmer and he chuckled.
“Will they help us?” he asked.
She nodded. “My family is not the only one disenfranchised by your rival. I knew he was ruthless, but I had no idea how many are afraid of him. They would have ignored me a month ago, before I became the wife of the Lord Changeling. The families who have fallen afoul of him—mine included—are so scared of retribution that they don’t talk.”
“Could you organize them, cause some sort of revolt?”
“Give me a decade or two, and I’ll have a spy network that will unravel him entirely. For now, all I can do is gather the bits of information they send me, sift through them, and try to uncover what others do not see. Amass enough twigs, and I can build a lovely piece of art.”
“You are very unconventional, my lady. Most faeries are too tradition-bound to even see the twigs. Speaking of which…” He reached out and plucked a sprig from her cloak and held it up. She blushed.
“I’m afraid Lady Cordelia’s son thought he could take advantage of a lowly female alone in the woods.”
His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Did he…?”
She reached out to caress his cheek, her touch reassuring him. “I am not without my own magic, husband, nor am I weak. It will be some time before he can fly again, but I could not afford to wait to see how faithful his friends are.”
His lips curled. “I will make certain he never treats a woman with disdain again.”
She shook her head. “Don’t waste your time, Tigano,” she said, then chuckled when he raised his brows in surprise.
“Do you recall when we first met?” she asked suddenly.
“How could I forget our wedding?”
This time, she laughed heartily.
“I didn’t think you’d remember. I met you twice before at court functions, but I was just a daughter of low ranking noble.”
He frowned, unable to recall ever seeing her before their marriage. He’d known who she was, but only by name. She was right. He would have dismissed her outright due to her family’s outcast status, but she was so strikingly beautiful.
“How could I possibly forget your face?” he asked.
“I was nothing to you, or to any other eligible man with any mote of ambition. You stood out to me, though, even if I had no notion of our future.”
It was his turn to chuckle, although it was bitter. “That wasn’t hard, not as the only changeling allowed in court.”
She smiled. “Or the only one dressed in black? No, that wasn’t why. I watched you and saw a faery who played politics only as a necessary evil. You play it very well, by the way, not like my father.”
“You found me interesting because of politics?”
She shook her head. “I saw a faery who—given a reason—could rise above the narcissism infecting the court and be someone truly special.”
“What did you think when you learned I was to be your husband?”
“What do you think? Fear, of course. What else would any woman feel who was to be given to the Lord Changeling? But that, I believe, is where I differ from the others. I felt hopeful as well, for I knew who you could be. Who you are becoming, in fact.”
He stared at her. No one had ever used hope in reference to him, unless they hoped they could gain from him. Shame flooded his soul, but he could not let her see him drowning. Taking her hand, he pulled it to his lips, kissing the back.
“I’m dirty, Tigano.”
Instead of letting go, he leaned forward and kissed her lips. She returned it for a few seconds, then pushed him away.
“Go. I need to wash.”
Reluctantly, he released her hand and stood.
“Husband,” she said softly. “With patience, we will have our revenge.”
Suddenly realizing he didn’t need his own plot, he almost admitted what he had done. Instead, he pivoted and strode as quickly as he dared away from the bedchamber, hoping his wife did not hear how desperate his steps were. Her plan would take longer, but he would be in an even greater position of strength in the long term.
Her plan doesn’t bring me any closer to immortality, he reminded himself, yet, for the first time, his life-long dream held no thrill.
Halfway down the hall, he turned to a sprint to the main entrance. Even as he ran, he marveled at this woman who he’d been forced to marry. If she was a spy for Finaarva or Månefè, then she was better at masking her true self than he was. All his senses told him there was no dissembling in her character, but what faery behaved in such a manner? Or was he simply blinded by this overwhelming emotion threatening to engulf him?
He reached the main entrance breathless only to find the oak door slightly ajar. It would be shut unless the goblin had already left but knew his master might order him back. He hurriedly shoved it open, raced up the circular stairway to the stump, then burst onto the river’s rocky beach, but his servant was nowhere to be seen.
The beach looked as dead as it ever had: fallen snags white as whale bone, gray moss, pale rocks. Then his eyes spied the piece of bright green that marred the boneyard. It lay atop a log, a cedar sprig recently broken. It had not fallen by chance, and he knew he was too late. Hagr was gone, leaving proof of its passage, and he hoped the goblin would fail. That would be far better than for his wife to discover his treachery.
♦ ♦ ♦
If Àibell wondered why Hagr Twyllo did not attend her over the next few days, she gave no indication. Tigano had not realized how many contacts she must have made while she’d ensconced herself in Finaarva’s court, but fireflies began appearing regularly.
No faery lord would ever stoop to using such a primitive method of sending messages. Kestrels, merlins, or sparrowhawks were the choices of the nobility when they did not send a goblin servant. Fireflies required a rustic peasant magic. He smiled each time one twinkled in the hallway or bedchamber. His wife would turn faery society upside-down given enough time, and that gave him hope others would accept changelings as she had accepted him.
On the fifth morning following his wife’s return, he found Hagr lounging at the foot of his throne in his sanctuary, casually twirling a thin chain with an oval pendant around its finger. As he entered, the goblin put the chain over its head. The pendant was a crudely shaped bauble of iron that hung open against the creature’s chest like a locket. Tigano stared closely at it, for the inside was stained, then cocked an eyebrow at his servant.
“My master, it is done. Baby Pwyll is now in the arms of Lord Månefè’s daughter and baby Arawn now sleeps in a crib in the house of Lady Àibell’s father.” The goblin’s chuckle was a dry rasp. “Of course, all think that Pwyll is Arawn and Arawn is Pwyll. But we know the truth, don’t we, master?”
“And no one saw you do this?”
Hagr held up the empty pendant. “Dragon blood is very powerful, my master. The ancient magic is cast.” It looked at the locket wistfully. “It drank all the blood…”
He knew what the goblin wanted, but in that moment, the creature disgusted him. Not for its malevolent, selfish nature, but because it had succeeded. Or maybe it was himself who he was disgusted with. One more step and his own treachery would be complete.
“Master, the spell…” Hagr reminded him, its voice eager as it removed the chain, dropping it onto the throne, then looking at him expectantly.
&n
bsp; He focused his gaze on the pendant. Such a small thing. To think of the power that might await him, that should await him. All he had to do was conclude what his servant had begun.
Àibell’s sad dark eyes swam before him. Was it too late to reverse what he had done?
He reached out to stroke the pendant, but as his fingers neared the iron bauble, dark red light leaped from the metal, striking his hand and knocking him backwards several steps.
As he regained his balance, he studied the pendant. Wisps of burgundy twirled from the inside, as if the dragon blood that Hagr had poured now danced, its exotic beauty drawing his eyes to the heart of the metal. He watched the wisps swirl seductively as if beckoning him to draw closer.
He could not resist. He extended his hand and the wisps leaped, wrapping around his fingers, pulling him as they slid to his wrist and up his arm, the touch as gentle as a lover.
Briefly, his eyes met Hagr’s. The little goblin’s bulbous orange orbs glowed like dragon fire. He felt his servant’s own inferior magic buried in the pendant, the sorcery it had cast when it had stolen the babies, beginning the spell. There was nothing wholesome in it, only malevolence, and he felt an urge to pull away.
Then the wisps spread, enveloping him in a cocoon that smoldered. Blood no longer flowed in his veins; lava roiled through his arteries, hot and sluggish. Sulfur stung his nose and throat. His back arced and his limbs splayed helplessly. He opened his mouth to scream as pain engulfed him, but only waves of heat emanated. All he could see were flames rising hundreds of feet, and he knew he would die if he did not regain control.
He did not know how long he battled the raging magic. Every slow heartbeat spasmed and throbbed as the power he faced defeated his attempts to reign it in. The flames sang insistently to him: death is preferable to your agony. Give yourself to me…
He dropped to his knees, raising his arms to push the pendant’s magic back. It gave slightly, and he could hear another melody, faint and distant, but just as compelling. It promised coolness. He focused on it, realizing he could hear another magic calling him. He extended an arm, knowing somehow the new song would respond.
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