The Crafters Book Two

by Christopher Stasheff

  The lady Lolorin, and the babe you mentioned. I take it they have need of a mortal nurse.”

  Anthea blushed. “So they have explained it to me—and I am the only human woman they have come upon. If he does not have human milk, the baby will die.”

  “So I have heard.” Roman frowned at Qualin. “But I confess to confusion. Has your race, ever so powerful, now grown so decadent as to need the services of a mortal nurse?”

  “Nay!” Qualin exploded. “ ’Tis thy race that hath done it, thy kind that have filled the land with Cold Iron; thine air doth reek with the fumes of the blood of the earth! The insidious aura of unchecked Cold Iron doth pervade the aether, and doth sap the strength from our limbs! Even here, in the fastness of the Welsh mountains, doth that vibrating reach—even here, far from all cities, doth it deplete us!”

  “ ’Tis true.” Lolorin’s eyes seemed even more huge. “ ’Tis therefore that my frame cannot bring forth milk rich enough for my child.”

  “Unchecked Cold Iron?” Roman frowned. “What is this you speak of? Men have used Cold Iron in every way they can, for millenia!”

  “Not so,” Qualin replied, “for your smithies have grown huge, and pour out vast quantities of the stuff—and more and more of it is alloyed and purified into such as was once reserved for swords!”

  “Of course!” Roman lifted his head, understanding coming into his eyes. “Steel has a broader and stronger aura than mere iron—and there is more and more of both abroad, as horses are shod and wagons multiplied! Tell me, is it the Midlands that are especially noisome to you?”

  “Aye. Where once was our haven, there are stinking piles of brick that are filled with bits of Cold Iron! Their aura pervades the Midlands; they blight the land!”

  “Mills,” Anthea whispered.

  “And their ramshackle towns,” Roman agreed. “Small wonder the Faerie Folk are vanishing.”

  Anthea frowned. “But the tales of your kidnapping mortal wet nurses go back hundreds of years!”

  Lolorin nodded. “Cold Iron began it—and as thy kind spread its use, so didst thou use it to hew down our trees, which did shelter our kind, and without which we cannot endure. Thus we retreated from thee and thy metal, for ’tis poisonous to us. We weakened, yet we persisted—till now.”

  Qualin nodded stiffly. “Our folk began to flee, when they found that scarcely a house could be found in all Britain that was not filled with nails of Cold Iron. Aye, they did fly to the Western Isles, where I trust they remain to this day.”

  Roman frowned. “The Western Isles that I cannot see?”

  “Thou wouldst not, nor any of thy kind—nay, nor will any of thine instruments of alchemy reveal them to thee. Of all the sons of Mother Earth, only those of the Blood may find them, or the roads that lead there.”

  Anthea looked up at Roman. “What instruments of alchemy are these?”

  But Roman only answered, “I never did like being excluded ... .”

  “There is no aid for it,” said Qualin. “Thy kind have not the eyes to see these Isles. Yet our folk did, and most fled; yet some did cling to our earth, and what remained of our forests, for ’twas the land and the trees that did give us birth, look thou, and we despaired of living without them. Aye, some few of us do bide in determination.”

  “How is it that the aura of Cold Iron weakens you?” Roman said softly.

  “ ’Tis counter to the coursing of our strength,” Qualin maintained. “ ’Tis too measured, too harsh. It doth disrupt all our magics, without which we cannot live.”

  Roman nodded. “No wonder you fled as far from the cities as possible.”

  “Not enough,” Anthea whispered, staring at Qualin. “It is leaching the life from you. How can you bear to stay?”

  “We are intractable,” Lolorin said, her voice low. “For look you, ’twas our land ere any of thy kind did come here, this Britain, this England—and how could it be either, an there were no Faerie folk here?”

  Qualin nodded. “Therefore we bide.”

  “It must be immensely lonely,” Anthea breathed.

  “I’ truth,” Lolorin whispered, “there are few enough of our kind that bide in all England—in all Europe, mayhap in all the world.”

  “But how can you endure?” Anthea asked. “Even after this child has grown ... “ She looked down at the baby, which looked up at her, wide-eyed. She smiled tenderly. “Oh, Roman! I cannot leave so sweet a child to perish!” She looked up at Lolorin, her eyes swimming with tears. “How unfair of you, to show me the baby, when you knew it would tug at my heart as strongly as any man could!”

  Lolorin only smiled, but with sadness and longing.

  “Her point is well taken,” Roman said, his voice low. “She must be free to go where she will, without coercion—and when she chooses.”

  Qualin’s mouth tensed with impatience. “Thou shalt have her so, when the babe no longer hath need of her.”

  “How long will that be—a year? Two? She is a free woman, you know.”

  “She shall not be our slave,” Lolorin said. “ ’Tis as thou sayest—she shall be handsomely paid, and we shall dismiss her in a year and a day as promised.”

  “In your time, perhaps. But how long will that be in our time? Seven years? Fourteen?”

  Qualin didn’t move, but something in his eyes showed that Roman had hit home. “We shall ensure that it be no longer in thy time than in ours.”

  Roman shook his head. “It is not enough. You cannot ask her to forfeit her youth.”

  “Thou dost presume.” Qualin seemed to draw inward, compacting, like a tiger readying itself to spring. “Thou dost not chaffer with the Old Ones.”

  “If the lady’s freedom is at stake ...”

  “Nay!” Lolorin cried. “Wilt thou two, in the pride of thy manhood, give the lass greater cause to weep than she already hath?”

  “I do not wish it.” Anthea’s voice caught in a sob.

  “Which?” rapped Qualin. “That the man be hurt? Or the babe starve?”

  “I do not wish it! Neither! I cannot stand for Mr. Crafter to be hurt, or the babe! But if only I can save the infant, I will!”

  Roman turned to her, appalled. “But you are too young to cast away seven years of your life, Miss Gosling, no matter how much good you may do with them!”

  “Speak honestly, mortal!” Qualin snapped. “It is not her youth that thou dost care for, but herself! Thou dost wish to have her for thine own! Do not dissemble!”

  Roman turned to stare at him, nonplused, and Anthea felt the blood drain from her face. Was there truth in what the Lord Qualin said? But surely there must be—the Faerie Folk could see to the heart of any mortal.

  But Roman had recovered his poise, and turned to her with a bow. “I surmise you find the choice unbearable, Miss Gosling.”

  “You ... surmise correctly, Mr. Crafter.”

  “‘Miss Gosling’! ‘Mr. Crafter’! Can they not be done with such pretenses?” Qualin burst out. “ ’Tis plain to all who see him that he is in love with thee, and plain to anyone who can hear the heart, that thou art in love with him! Canst thou not at least call one another by personal names?”

  Anthea blushed and lowered. her eyes, her heart pounding.

  She heard Roman’s voice, slow and wondering. “Miss Gosling ... Anthea ... No, I’ve no right to ask!”

  “Yet I will answer, though not at this moment,” she replied.

  “I shall call you ‘Roman,’ though, if I may.”

  “I would be honored. And may I call you ‘Miss Anthea’?”

  “You may not, sir,” she retorted. “ ‘Anthea’ will do.” She was gratified to hear him let out an awed breath.

  “Well, there is some vestige of honesty, at least,” Qualin said, and Lolorin added, her voice low, “We cannot ask thee to stay with us now, Anthea, if thou art in love.
”

  “Unless ... “ Qualin looked up, eyes burning. “Thy lover would stay with thee?”

  “Instantly,” Roman said quickly.

  Sir Roderick coughed into an iron fist.

  “That is, if the proprieties could be observed,” Roman amended.

  “Indeed.” Qualin’s lip curled. “And where are we to find thee a minister, or a chaperone?”

  Sir Roderick looked up, as though at a sound, then said, “That may not be so vast a chore as you think. If you will excuse me a moment?” He disappeared.

  “What ... what could he have heard?” Anthea stammered.

  “There is another matter I have neglected to mention,” Roman began, but footsteps—of more than one person—echoed in the passageway.

  Qualin whirled, backing up to shield Lolorin with his body, and she tensed behind him. She didn’t move, but her eyes seemed to grow even larger. Shaking his head, Qualin lifted a hand slowly, wrist turning in a complicated pattern as the fingers seemed to stroke the air. He began to chant in words that Anthea and Roman did not know, and the cave walls disappeared, replaced by the rich wooden panels and the tapestries. The floor was carpeted again, and Lolorin lay once more, richly garbed, in the four-poster bed.

  Then Sir Roderick stepped out of the tunnel—and beside him were Aunt Trudy and Hester.

  “Aunt Trudy!” Anthea cried, and lowered her gaze. “Oh, forgive me!”

  “In an instant, child.” Aunt Trudy bustled over to her and caught her hand, chafing it, then touching a palm to her forehead. “Lord Delbert is another matter—but you I’ll forgive in an instant, the more so because I feel certain you’ve learned the reasons underlying some of the strictures surrounding a young lady. There, child, are you well? Such a deal of damp! And really, who are these people who live in so unseemly a location?”

  “I might ask the same of thyself,” Qualin snapped. “Have a care how thou dost address a lord and lady of Faerie!”

  “A lord of Faerie?” Aunt Trudy turned, staring. “My heavens, it’s true! Well, I am the Lady Gertrude Brock, wife to the late baronet—and I trust it will not be necessary to call upon his aid! Yourself, sir?”

  “I am the Lord Qualin, and my wife is the lady Lolorin. Our son is only a fortnight aged, and hath a need of mortal aid. Wilt thou grant him such?”

  “Sir!” Aunt Trudy cried, drawing herself up.

  “I feared not,” Qualin said, thin-lipped. “But if not thee or thy niece, then who?”

  “I ... I am not wellborn, Lord Qualin,” Hester said hesitantly, “but I am human.”

  “Hester!” Aunt Trudy cried. “You speak out of turn!”

  “Yet such speech is perhaps welcome.” Qualin’ s eyes glowed, and Lolorin pushed herself a little further upright, hope in her eyes. “Wouldst thou nurse my babe then, mortal lass?”

  “Oh, the poor wee thing!” Hester cried, and ran to the Faerie’s bedside. She caught up the baby and rocked it, crooning. “Oh, how could I turn away, with one who would need me so! Yet I fear there’s little good I could do it for some months yet, for my milk has not yet come.”

  “You are with child?” Lolorin’s eyes swelled.

  “Yes, milady, though the father will not acknowledge my babe.” Hester bowed her head ruefully.

  “That doth matter naught,” Lolorin said, “and a small spell will suffice to bring thy milk before its time. Yet know, mortal woman, that if thou dost stay to nurse my babe a year, seven will pass in thy realm outside this hill.”

  Hester stilled, and Aunt Trudy said, “I really cannot allow a servant in my employ to be so badly used.”

  “We will not use her ill, but well,” Qualin said with surprising force. “She shall be honored, and shall live in luxury—and when her service is done, she shall have Faerie gold aplenty.” He turned to Hester. “Name thy fee!”

  “Oh ... why ... “ Hester looked up, startled, but Aunt Trudy nodded slightly, and she said, “Why ... a hundred pounds, I should think.”

  “A thousand,” Aunt Trudy said. “Ten.”

  Qualin glared at her, then shrugged. “One thousand or ten, what the matter? She shall have it, and Faerie magic shall grant her a safe and easy birthing.”

  “But what of my child, after?” Hester wondered.

  “What of yourself?” said Aunt Trudy. “Your son we can foster easily enough—but how shall you live when your service here is over?”

  “Why ... I had not thought ...”

  “I shall take you back into my household gladly, if I am still alive,” Aunt Trudy assured her, “and I intend to be—but one never knows ...”

  “I shall surely be able to provide for her, Aunt,” Anthea offered, “and I shall be pleased to have her services.”

  “Oh, will you, miss?” Hester cried. “Oh, thank you!”

  “Though there will be small need for it, if you’ve ten thousand in your own right,” Aunt Trudy finished. “Such a dowry should attract a worthy husband—but we should speak of love, Hester. How will you feel to lose seven years with young men?”

  Hester shrugged. “I’ve little enough interest in them of the moment, milady—and it may be they will be better when I return.”

  Roman turned a grunt into a cough, and Sir Roderick said, “I doubt that exceedingly, young woman.”

  “Well, then, mayhap my Robin will have position enough to want a wife and babes,” Hester said, then shrugged. “Though I’m not so certain I would want him anymore. ’Twould be hard to find any other husband, though, when I’ve already a babe.”

  “If thy mistress cannot find a home for thy child, he shall have one here,” Lolorin said firmly. “ ‘Twould not be the first time a mortal lad hath been raised in the Faerie realm.”

  Hester turned to stare at Lolorin, her eyes growing huge.

  “Oh, milady! If you only could ...”

  “We can, and shall.”

  “And there, I think, is Hester’s trouble solved, at least for the present,” Aunt Trudy said, “though you must call on us, Hester, as soon as you have come back to the daylight world.”

  “Oh, yes, ma’ am! And I’ll be forever grateful!” Hester dropped a curtsey.

  “And so, I think, you have no further need of myself, Lord Qualin, or of my niece,” Aunt Trudy said.

  “No, none at all.” Qualin was standing by the bed, one hand on his son’s head, one hand on Lolorin’s shoulder. “Go in peace, mortal folk—and I thank thee for thine aid in this.”

  “It was our pleasure, I’m sure. Anthea?”

  “Oh, thank you, Hester!” Anthea rose and followed her aunt out of the tunnel, very much aware of Roman’s presence behind her. Not that she needed to worry about making conversation, though—Aunt Trudy was doing splendidly at that, and not leaving much opportunity for anyone else. “Well, really, Sir Roderick! I didn’t even begin to recognize you! Your head, at last! After all these years! Oh, it is so very good to see you again! But how has this come to pass?”

  With a shock, Anthea realized that she had not been the only lonely child to be reared at Windhaven.

  “Really quite remarkable, Trudy,” Sir Roderick replied. “By excellent chance, that cad Delbert laid a route straight past the battlefield where I lost my head, so many centuries ago. Really quite a bit of luck, that. And as to your seeing me again—well, I fancy your contact with Anthea may have had something to do with it. But it’s mostly the result of these Faerie Folk, d’you see—they fairly exude magic, they’re surrounded by it, and I’ve no doubt it amplified your own gifts and woke them again, in a fashion ... .”

  Anthea realized, with a start, that they had come out into the light of false dawn—and that Aunt Trudy and Sir Roderick were moving off to the side, not at all obviously, but moving quite a deal faster than they seemed to, and there was quite a bit of space opening between the two of them on the one hand, and
herself and Roman on the other. The ball of light had emerged behind the American, and was waning in the half-light, disappearing with the deep-chimed admonishment, “Call me at need, Roman.”

  “I thank you for all your assistance, Erasmus,” Roman said, then turned back to the lady. “Well, Miss Anthea, it would seem our long night is nearly done.”

  She took a breath, nerved herself up to it, and said, “Just ‘Anthea,’ if you please, Roman. I believe I did give you that permission.”

  “Anthea,” he murmured, and his voice caressed her name as though it were a fabulous jewel.

  Then, somehow, fantastically, insanely, he had taken hold of her hands and was gazing deeply into her eyes and was saying, “Anthea, the Faerie lord is right—I am a fool to dissemble any longer! I have loved you since I met you, and every succeeding acquaintance, every word from your tempting lips, has made me love you the more! Desire for you burns so deeply in me that it will drive me mad, if you do not assuage it by a promise to wed me! Marry me, I beg of you, and I swear I shall do all that I may to ensure your happiness!”

  “But ... but Mr. Crafter ... Roman ...” Anthea caught her breath, and what was left of her senses. “How ... how can you still wish to be with me, when you have ... had to confront the fact that I am ... haunted?”

  “Haunted? Oh, now, sweet lady!” Roman stepped closer, as though to reassure her. “It is merely that you have the sensitivity, the gift, to see what others cannot!”

  “But do you not see that I must be fey? That I must be one of those born to—” She forced herself to say it. “—to a weird? And that I come from a family so accursed? And that my children, in all probability, shall be so, too?”

  “Children! Oh, Anthea!” Roman pressed closer still. “If they were my children as well as yours, you may be sure they would have the Talent—for do you not see that I am one even as yourself? Nay, I assure you that in my family the Talent does not only run—it is a virtual torrent! For six generations, my family have cultivated their gifts, learning the science of magic! The trait has bred true, and has grown and grown.” He took her by the shoulders and held her off at arm’s length. “How can you think that I would be put off by meeting with Sir Roderick, when you yourself have seen my own supernatural friend? And he not inherited, but discovered and befriended by me myself!”