Got Hope

by Michael Darling

  Selfish. Self-absorbed. This woman is unbelievable.

  Disappointment fought decorum as the lid was closed. The box bearing my mother’s remains was carried over the bridge at a stately pace while I followed behind. Most of what I knew about my mother I’d gotten from Béil, who was not the most reliable source. My father and I would have a reunion later, and I would see her again.

  “Bring my presents,” the Máithrín called. “Bring them all. I can’t bear to wait.”

  The burly men eased my mother down, then grabbed other boxes. I picked up the one that remained.

  We returned to Máithrín’s side, hurrying back over the bridge as she chided us. “Ye tormentors. How I suffer while ye dawdle.” Then she laughed, a hyena-inspired sound which grated on my nerves.

  Her fingers twitched as she reached for the next box.

  Urlabhraí sidled up to me as the Máithrín worked to open her next gift.

  “Art thou prepared to unite with the Dubhcridhe?” Urlabhraí’s eyes burned into mine. His hand strayed to the side of his face and he gave me the deamhan bite sign.

  With a thrum of electric understanding, I realized who he was: Servant of the Dubhcridhe. Standing at the forefront of the Máithrín’s company. Traitor to his mistress. Possessor of Marcus and Jons. The voice down the rat pipe. Vapeman. He’d tried to kill Sir Siorradh when he’d appeared in his cloud of nausea in the wood, lying in wait. He’d known where we would be, and why not? He’d probably helped the Máithrín plan our journey here.

  I choked down my shock and looked back to the Máithrín, busy emptying a box.

  “Lovely.” She lifted out a peach the size of a grapefruit. “These don’t grow well in our kingdom. We’ve certainly tried.” She held the peach in both hands and put it to her nose, inhaling. A servant appeared with a china plate and a silver knife. As soon as the Máithrín put the peach on the plate, the servant cut a delicate slice from its side. The Máithrín slid the slice off the plate between her fingertips and placed it on her tongue. “Delightful. I may find myself unable to share.”

  She waved the bearer of the peach box away. “What’s next?”

  The servant in front of me stepped forward. I adjusted my grip. The box I carried was heavy and felt like it was getting heavier. Urlabhraí had strolled back to his place and stared at me. I let the strain of the muscles in my back and arms distract me so I wouldn’t look at him.

  Box number three had bolts of cloth, woven beautifully in bright colors and intricate styles. “Mm. Oo. Yes.” The Máithrín let her fingers dance, feeling the textures and the tiny butterflies worked into the patterns. “Very nice. The Alder King knows me well.”

  Her green eyes finally landed on me. “Look at thee,” she said. “So strong and patient. Let’s see what thou hast then.”

  I stepped forward and lowered the box in a smooth motion, as if it hadn’t been heavy at all. I stood and forced a smile the Máithrín didn’t notice. She put the fingers of one hand to work tapping on her cheek while the fingers of the other hand flicked through the air and the clasps on the box—and there were many—clicked open one by one.

  “A box in a box in a box,” the Máithrín said. “Curious as cats and clever as rats.”

  Curious myself, I looked.

  I know that box.

  A silver box, much taller than it was wide.

  Another icy electric shock hit my gut and ran up my backbone and down through my legs to my knees.

  Why the hell would my father send this thing here?

  “The Súilfirinne?” the voice of the Máithrín was smoother than before, and colder. “The Judgment Stone. How marvelous. I so seldom get to play with such toys.”

  She seemed torn, like she wanted to get a closer look but was afraid to be near it.

  I knew exactly how far away I wanted to be.

  “Perhaps we brought the wrong gift, your majesty.” The horrible screams of the maiden Nathair echoed in my memory. “Let me take it back.”

  “No, no, dear boy. This is not the wrong gift. It’s the perfect gift.” To her burly servants, she said, “Take it to the middle of the bridge. Do not drop it.”

  The burly servants picked up the silver box and carried it up the bridge.

  “May I ask what you intend to do?” I addressed the Máithrín’s back as she moved to the curtain where she’d come from. In an instant, she was in front of me. She moved so fast, there wasn’t even a blur. One moment, she was ten feet away. In the next moment, ten inches away.

  She hissed at me. “I intend to use it, little prince.”

  Chapter Thirty: Defending the Bug Man

  “Urlabhraí! Bring me a prisoner!”

  Vapeman nodded and left the plateau.

  Spit-spit-spit. I had no desire to witness the birth of another deamhan. There had to be a way to make the Máithrín see reason.

  She threw the curtains to the sides and I saw her throne in all its glory.

  The back of the chair was crafted from a pair of leathery wings but the wings were punctuated with holes at odd intervals and patched together from different shades of leather from light brown to almost black. Above the seat were a pair of large reptilian skulls. The arm rests featured mismatched skulls of predators as well. The rest of the throne was covered in more of the skin with the odd arrangements of holes. Why were there holes? There was a certain configuration, repeated, rotated at different angles. Pairs of holes the size of a quarter, smaller holes the size of a dime, and below a gash.

  I shuddered.

  Holy Hannah and her sisters.

  The skin was made of faces. Dozens of faces, stretched and dried, assembled without being stitched together as if they had been fused or melted or grown that way.

  I didn’t want to look anymore. It was hard to look away.

  “Thou art not the only deamhanslayer in these realms, boy.” The Máithrín slid into her throne, leaning back and crossing her legs languidly, her hands brushing over the skulls on the armrests as if they were pets. “Perhaps we shall make a deamhan together. The two of us. And then kill it together. Won’t that be nice?”

  It certainly won’t be nice.

  “Thou thinkest me mad. I can tell.”

  I cleared my throat. “There are enough evils in the world without making more, majesty.”

  The Máithrín squirmed in her seat, anticipating. She put on an exaggerated expression of sympathy and concern. “Art thou afraid to have some fun, little one? We could make an itty-bitty deamhan instead of a great big one.”

  How does that work? Do you have a child prisoner?

  I didn’t answer but gave a small, tight smile.

  Urlabhraí hadn’t needed to go far to find a prisoner. He re-emerged with a man stripped to a loincloth, bearing cuts on his back and shoulders. He had silver manacles around his wrists and offered no resistance as he was dragged onto the stony stage by a silver chain.

  He raised his head and offered a toothy grin when he saw me. I recognized the image of the Dubhcridhe easily when I saw it now, the same black picture that had been on the business card left on my windshield. The image was burned into the man’s forehead.

  Tweedledumb?

  It couldn’t be. But it was.

  Seeing Urlabhraí, seeing my mother, seeing Tweedledumb now. How many shocks to the system are there in this place?

  “What crimes has this one committed?” the Máithrín asked.

  Urlabhraí almost shouted as he announced. “Ciaróg of Hassfell has confessed to executing treason through membership in the forbidden cult of the Dubhcridhe. He has waived his right to a review by tribunal and is willing to accept any punishment the Máithrín chooses.”

  “The Máithrín chooses . . .” She paused to tap her chin and look at the deep, dark sky as if we didn’t all know what she would choose. “. . . Judgment by toy. Chain him to the Súilfirinne to be judged.” She wriggled on her throne of faces in anticipation.

  Urlabhraí gave a bow. He took Tweedledumb’s c
hain and led him up the bridge which meant he’d have to walk past me.

  In a low voice, I said, “Traitor. One way or another.”

  “How so?” Urlabhraí paused.

  “You serve the Dubhcridhe against the Eternals or you betray your friend. Or both.”

  “Do I?” He moved away.

  Tweedledumb—Ciaróg—walked past me next. I followed behind him, speaking softly. “Why are you doing this?” I didn’t expect an answer but he gave me one.

  “Some things are bigger than one person.”

  “Right. Whales. Redwood trees. The love of a mother for her child. You never got much of the last one.”

  “Screw you, Luck.”

  “The only thing worse than a bug-spitting maniac is a bug-spitting maniac zealot.”

  “I give my life to show the indifference and unfairness of the Eternals.”

  “You don’t have to die to do that.”

  “I’ll be a martyr no one will be able to ignore.”

  “I hope that gives you comfort as unbelievable pain takes over your body and you realize it’s not going to stop. I’ve seen what the Súilfirinne does.”

  Tweedledumb shrugged. “My pain doesn’t matter.”

  The Stain on him hadn’t caught my full attention before. Now I really looked at it, analyzing it, categorizing its qualities and characteristics. He had three primary Stains. One must define his ability to spit insects. The other was a general Stain of a type that seemed to be common among Halflings. I would remember them for later.

  The third major Stain was the dark one. I had a dark Stain as well. One I received from Caimiléir when he had cast a spell of control on me. It had been imposed on me. It marked me as someone who had been affected by evil, but it didn’t make me evil.

  Tweedledumb’s bare back was marked by cuts and bruises but he was not stained by Stain. Not yet. The evil had not started marking his skin. Not like Brón. Not like Nathair.

  “Your pain does matter,” I said.

  Returning to the Máithrín’s throne gave me a sense of relief as I put some distance between me and the most frightening toy in existence. What I was about to do gave me a whole new brand of anxiety.

  “Majesty.” She pulled her attention away from the drama on the bridge.

  “What is it, kinglet?”

  “There are other traitors in our midst.”

  “Are there now? How delicious.” Her eyes sparkled.

  “It pains me to tell thee, but Urlabhraí is a member of the Dubhcridhe as well. He asked me to join them. If thou art to punish Ciaróg, punish Urlabhraí as well.”

  “Commendable,” she said. “I love a man with a strong sense of justice.”

  Not the reaction I expected. I’d imagined her face contorting in anger as she called lightning down from the sky to mete out vengeance. Or something like that.

  She knows.

  “I see.” I had to reassess everything I knew about Vapeman. I didn’t know a lot, so reassessment was quick. “Was it your idea for him to infiltrate the Dubhcridhe?”

  The Máithrín screwed up her lips and leaned away, settling against the face-skinned back of her throne.

  I went on. “You weren’t surprised when I told you Urlabhraí was a member of the Dubhcridhe. You already knew. So, again, my question: did you ask Urlabhraí to find Halfling sympathizers or did he suggest it to you?”

  She curled her feet up under her and propped her chin on her hand. “What’s the difference?”

  “If it was your idea, it’s more likely he’s working to fulfill your wishes. If it was his idea, it’s more likely he’s working for his own reasons.”

  She shrugged in reply.

  “It makes the perfect cover if he’s operating with your blessing. He recruits Halflings and helps build a cult with the intent of taking power from the Eternals. But he tells you about it, maybe letting you know that he wants to root them out, punish them, and occasionally he gives you a sacrificial lamb to make you think he’s only pretending to serve the cult when he’s helping build an army that will eventually rise against all the Eternals.”

  “Urlabhraí is only working to serve me.”

  “Do you know who leads the Dubhcridhe? Are you sure Ur here doesn’t have another master?”

  “He serves only me,” she insisted.

  “Is that what he tells you? Because Halflings can lie.”

  “They can indeed. Halfling.”

  That stopped me. Her implication wasn’t wrong. She hadn’t met me before today, but Ur had served her for a century or more, for all I knew.

  “He told you I turned down the chance to join the Dubhcridhe, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did. Happily for thee.”

  “Ready, majesty.” Urlabhraí had fastened Ciaróg’s chain to a ring set into the Súilfirinne’s case. When the case opened, and the glass case bloomed, his hands would be inches away from the purple crystals that would change his life. And end it. Urlabhraí’s face was a mask. Was he playing both sides?

  “May we have fun now, little prince?” The Máithrín traced circles with her fingers around the eye sockets of the skulls beneath her hands.

  I have to stop her before she opens that thing.

  “You want to play with your toys.” I said. “Even if you make a martyr? And give the Dubhcridhe more fuel to support their claims?”

  “The man has confessed.” She said it as if she needed no further reason.

  I gritted my teeth and felt the muscles in my jaw flex. I needed to choose my words very carefully. After a long moment, I said, “I don’t wish to offend you, beloved queen, but it feels like you are mistaking your people for your toys.”

  I turned away from her. She wasn’t going to listen to me. She wanted to use the Judgment Stone and she didn’t care if it was the right thing to do.

  Your kingdom, your rules, crazy lady.

  I had to do something. Tweedledumb was not a good guy but he wasn’t evil. He wasn’t deamhan material. Not yet. It still felt stupid to defend him.

  I moved up the bridge. “Doing something wrong, making a bad choice,” I spoke loud enough to be heard by everyone, “is a far cry from becoming wicked or being a bad person.”

  I pointed at Ciaróg. “Bad decisions can be undone. Mistakes can be fixed. The Judgment Stone accelerates the becoming of a person. You’ve heard it makes deamhans. It does. The process I witnessed was brutal and terrifying but the person who became a deamhan was already beyond redemption. She not only did bad things, she started enjoying it. She committed evil acts to please herself. Evil became who she was, not just what she had done.”

  The faces of those around me had turned solemn. I expected the members of my company to be sympathetic but it was gratifying to see that the Máithrín’s people were listening too. More than anything else, I needed them to listen and if I was lucky, believe me. Then the Máithrín might believe me too.

  Urlabhraí stared at me, disbelief and contempt fighting for dominance in his expression. Tweedledumb was less emotional. He was resigned to having a bad day. The direction it took wasn’t important.

  “Ciaróg may have earned punishment,” I said. “But he hasn’t earned torture and death to the degree the Súilfirinne will inflict upon him. The Judgment Stone will torture him and it will kill him, but it will not make a deamhan of him, because that’s not who he is inside.”

  No new additions to the Máithrín’s throne today.

  “And yet,” the Máithrín slid from her throne in a slow, smooth motion that set her on a curving walk towards me. “There’s only one way to be sure.”

  She’s insane.

  Why won’t she let this go?

  Couldn’t she see this was politically stupid?

  All because she wants to play goddess with the lives of her subjects?

  The anger had been growing inside me for a while before I noticed. Or it hit me in a way that was now familiar and continued to blossom.

  Idiot queen.

  My
vision started to close in at the edges, like looking through a blurry red tunnel.

  Moronic bug spitter.

  The fire wanted to come out. I shoved it down. “You don’t have to be sure. You don’t have to know at all.”

  I wanted to burn them. Burn them to stubble.

  Wait.

  No no no. I couldn’t lose control now. Not in front of the Máithrín.

  They’d told me they’d make me angry. Urlabhraí, the Vapeman, had promised.

  Stop.

  Breathe.

  Don’t feed the anger. Don’t feed the fire. Don’t hurt anyone. The Máithrín will kill us all.

  If it were just me.

  The Fae love their games.

  I swallowed my anger. I had to. A network of hot wires coursed over my skin. Submerged anger combining with fear, naked and new.

  A game.

  I was afraid to play it.

  I had to.

  “I propose a wager. For the Máithrín.” I clasped my hands together, feigning casual but I was shaking. From holding the anger. From the horrible things that would happen if I got this wrong. I couldn’t show weakness. I needed to be calm. Confident.

  A hush fell over everything.

  The Máithrín’s voice was the only sound, brilliant like a bell. “I’m listening, kinglet.”

  No one could hear the pounding in my chest.

  Could they?

  I swallowed. Clearing a path for the words. “I wager that Ciaróg will not become a deamhan. He will instead die painfully, and slowly, nothing more. The Máithrín will be disappointed, and we will take the Súilfirinne back to the Alder King where it will remain.”

  The Máithrín approached. I couldn’t read her eyes. I only saw they were ancient and curious. Her fingers played across my shoulder, constantly moving, caressing my neck like she had caressed the skulls of her throne and her dolls.

  She was playing with me. My skin shuddered wherever she touched me. The pit of anxiety in my gut grew bigger, swallowing my composure.

  “And what, I pray thee, if a deamhan he becomes? What penalty, little prince, wilt thou pay if Ciaróg grows teeth as long as your arm? What if a hundred eyes open in his face? If he spreads wings wide enough to blot out the sky and we must all fight him together or die?”