by Bill Hiatt
The guests were lined up outside the castle, waiting to be admitted through the outer gate—and some of them were decidedly not happy about the delay. Aside from the various bodyguards and attendants, most of the increasingly grumpy faeries were royalty, or at least high officials, unaccustomed to this kind of long wait. I could hear one of the guards patiently explaining that he had orders to make sure everyone was who he or she appeared to be.
From where I was standing, I couldn’t see how thorough the identity check actually was, but that one of the guards would mention such a thing in the first place worried me. As we had planned earlier, I had a brief coughing fit as a signal to the Dagda to ready the Amadan Dubh diversion.
Aside from its restlessness and irritability, the crowd looked as if it had walked straight off the cover of a fantasy novel. Since the faerie royals were attending the wedding of two fellow monarchs, they had made considerable effort to dress for the occasion. Their crowns alone shone like small stars in the sunlight, and their gowns and robes blew in the wind like ever-shifting rainbows. I’d seen quite a few faeries in this life, and even I was a little overwhelmed by the spectacle.
“Try not to gawk,” Doirend whispered in my ear. “Alroy would already look bored by this time.”
“Can I set up mental communication?” I whispered back. That could be risky, but probably not as risky as having Doirend whisper in my ear. Faeries had sharp hearing, and my double could make his equally sharp.
Doirend nodded, and I connected us effortlessly.
“There, now we can talk as much as we need to,” I thought.
“Too bad,” she replied. “I rather liked whispering in your ear.”
“We can’t be overheard this way—oh, unless we get too close to my blood double, or unless he is actively looking for this kind of communication. Maybe we shouldn’t—”
“Stop fussing! There’s so much magic around here that even someone with your abilities isn’t likely to spot us talking mentally unless the person is quite close.”
Doirend was probably right, but I didn’t want to take chances, especially considering that any mistake could mean death. I would refrain from mental contact unless I had no choice.
I maintained that resolve for almost a full fifteen seconds, at which point Doirend gave me an extremely passionate kiss.
“You are bound by tynged not to seduce me,” I reminded her.
“I’m not trying to seduce you,” she thought back innocently. “I’m trying to preserve your cover. This is what I would be doing with Alroy.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want to blow my cover,” I conceded, painfully conscious of the fact that my cheeks were now as red as my hair.
“No, I definitely would not want to blow…your cover.”
Yeah, this was going to be a long afternoon for sure.
Then I realized one benefit of being lip-locked with Doirend: it reduced the need to make small talk with any of Alroy’s friends who might pass by. I could easily draw on his memories to act just like him, but I found having to do so a little distracting; I wanted to stay focused more on possible threats than on small talk. Kissing Doirend I could manage without having to draw on Alroy’s memories.
Once it realized playing along with the faerie princess was the best strategy, I feigned as much enthusiasm as I could. She was surprised—but not unhappy. She would have been a lot more unhappy if she had known how little attention I was actually paying her.
The mood of the crowd became progressively less festive as the process of being admitted to the castle dragged on. I pretended not to notice, but I couldn’t help but be a little alarmed—especially when I spotted my blood double standing with the guards. No doubt he was scanning every single person who came in. No one else would know how deeply to scan in order to uncover a blood double—but he certainly would.
It occurred to me I probably should have experimented with ways to bury myself completely for a period of time. I could dive as deeply as I wanted, but if I went too far inside Alroy’s duplicated mind, his normal personality would take over completely, and I wasn’t sure how easy it would be to become myself again. The fake Olympians had obviously been able to pull off something like that. How I wished I had taken the time to figure out how they managed such a feat, but there was no way to figure that out now.
When we had nearly reached the gate, the Dagda must have cued the fake Amadan Dubh, who succeeded in creating a big uproar somewhere behind us. Most of the guards ran toward the outcry. Unfortunately, the fake me didn’t move. If anything, he seemed even more focused on the line of guests than he had been before. Could he have realized that Dubh’s attempt to crash the wedding was a distraction?
“I will handle him,” thought Doirend, releasing her grip on me.
“Taliesin!” she called out, brushing past the remaining guards. “I did not know I would have the pleasure of being able to thank my rescuer yet again.” She grabbed him and planted a really intense kiss on his lips—totally in character for her, yet also a perfect distraction. While the blood double’s focus was on her, I rolled my eyes in mock disgust, presented Doirend’s invitation to a guard, and drifted on in, with another eye roll that elicited the guard’s sympathetic nod. In a moment Doirend joined me inside.
“Do you think he noticed me at all?” I asked.
“I doubt he even realizes I have an escort here,” thought Doirend. Knowing how I would have reacted to the same situation, I had to agree.
We made our way to the courtyard where the ceremony was to take place. It was as festive as I might have predicted, decked out as if a thousand flower shops had combined their inventories in one place. It was also, however, much more fraught with security than normal, a fact on which I could hear other guests remarking unfavorably. Armed guards ringed the entire courtyard, and a mass of faerie archers hovered above like a storm cloud. Tanaquill had not made any effort to conceal the security arrangements, or maybe that was the point: a reminder to the guests of just how much military force she could command.
Whatever she was doing, it looked as if it were backfiring. I could almost feel the increasing tension in the courtyard, like a gray fog masking the sunny mood you would want for a wedding. If this was any indication of Tanaquill’s leadership ability, she wouldn’t make a very good queen.
The muttering from the crowd subsided when the music switched to what I assumed was the faerie equivalent of the wedding march. Entering from our right was Gwynn ap Nudd, wearing what must have been dress armor, not what I would have expected for a wedding, but polished to a moonlike shine.
I knew a fair number of Gwynn’s officials and guards, but I didn’t recognize any of his groomsmen, except for my blood double—not a good sign. Every effort must have been made to keep people who knew Gwynn well away from him. That’s what it looked like, anyway. I didn’t dare check for fear of giving myself away, but my impostor looked as if he was concentrating on something, most likely scanning the crowd. Still looking for me, probably. The fact that Doirend and I were pretty far back was a lucky break.
Entering from the left was Tanaquill, a beauty reminiscent of her mother, Titania, though her bridal outfit, like Gwynn’s armor, seemed somehow out of place. Her dress was white, almost sun-bright, and she wore diamond jewelry that glittered like small stars. Despite all that light, there was something cold about the effect, as if Nicneven had designed it. For all I knew, perhaps she had.
I didn’t recognize Tanaquill’s bridesmaids, either, but never having been at the English faerie court, I wasn’t surprised. They all wore gowns of sky blue and smiled warmly as they walked in, a picture-perfect wedding party.
Maybe that was what was off-putting about Tanaquill. Her smile wasn’t warm; it was gloating.
All the members of the wedding party had now assembled on a large platform at the far end of the courtyard. I noticed a grim-looking faerie king robed in dark purple standing between the bride and groom, presumably to officiate. I would not have paid much a
ttention, except that the guests seemed shocked when they realized who it was.
“Who is that?” I risked asking Doirend.
“Bres, a former high king of Ireland,” she replied, her own shock evident in her thoughts.
“And…” I prompted. I could feel the shock of those close to me. It might be important to know why his appearance caused such a sensation.
“He was born of a union between one of our people, the Tuatha Dé Danann, and our enemies at the time, the Fomhoraigh—you might know them as Formorians. His election was supposed to bring peace, but he favored the Fomhoraigh so shamelessly that he was defeated in battle and deposed.”
“Is he supposed to be in prison or something?”
“No, his life was spared in exchange for the spells he had been hoarding for himself. He was pardoned and permitted to return to his underground home. He has not been seen among us since.”
“Is that why everybody is so surprised?” I asked.
“That is but the smallest part of it. The battle Bres lost is the battle in which my grandfather was supposed to have died, and in which Gwynn’s father did perish. He is a strange choice to preside at Gwynn’s wedding. It could be a gesture of reconciliation, but the Fomhoraigh are no longer a threat to us. More likely it is a slap at my grandfather and at Finvarra, either of whom could have been asked had Tanaquill desired a high king to preside at her wedding.”
Faerie politics again—I ought to have known. If so, however, it seemed like profoundly stupid politics. From what I could sense without probing the people around me—which the real Alroy could not have done—the guests seemed more offended than pleased by Bres being honored in such a way.
Surely Tanaquill hadn’t gotten where she was by being stupid. Neither had Nicneven. There had to be some reason for putting the deposed high king on display.
Whatever she was plotting, it was time to get the Dagda the proof of treachery that he needed. I activated the ring that would burn through the blood sustaining any blood double nearby. If nothing else, it would unmask my impostor, but I suspected he would not be the only one. If I was correct, I had to hope the counterspell would run its course before the ceremony could be completed.
Almost immediately I got a lucky break. Tanaquill raised her hand to signal Bres not to start and ceremony. Then she turned to the muttering guests.
“Friends, I see that my choice of officiant may have offended some of you, and for that I most sincerely apologize. I meant the presence of Bres to be a symbol of a new beginning for us, a beginning unfettered by the conflicts of the past.
“Too long our people have been motivated by old hatred, torn by violence, unable to form a single coherent society. Today, with my marriage to Gwynn ap Nudd, uniting our two peoples after centuries of separation, is a day to focus on the future, not the past.”
As if on cue, Gwynn said, “It is for that reason that it is Bres, once a mortal enemy, who will join Tanaquill and me in marriage. Only by forgiving and forgetting our past can we ever have a better future.”
I had to admit Tanaquill handled the obvious discontent of the guests more skillfully than I had expected, in the process setting herself up as the leader of a movement for faerie unity.
Despite the tightly packed crowd in the courtyard, the Dagda had somehow maneuvered himself next to Doirend, probably so he could be near his club if need be. Tanaquill’s ode to peace and harmony had clearly not convinced him. I worried a little that his closeness would draw unwanted attention to me, but people could think he just wanted to be near his favorite granddaughter. My blood double was still eyeing the crowd but wasn’t focusing as far back as we were.
The actual ceremony continued without incident. Bres might have just popped out of a hole in the ground—more or less literally—but he was evidently well briefed on the details of the ritual, and he never once faltered, though his Gaelic seemed even more archaic than that of the other faeries.
I found myself getting more and more nervous. The ceremony was nearing its end, and my blood double was still intact, though the counterspell should only have taken minutes, and we were already approaching an hour. Was the courtyard too large? Was he out of range, or was the distance just causing a delay?
Then an even worse question occurred to me. Hecate had taken a blood sample after Magnus had told me about the counterspell, so my blood double knew about it. Could he have already perfected a protection against it? If not, could the modifications to the counterspell Hermes had made in the interest of subtlety and wider targeting have reduced its effectiveness? I had no choice but to wait and find out.
The Dagda wasn’t helping. I could feel his growing tension vibrate through me as if I were one of the strings on his harp. He didn’t even look in my direction, but I knew he was wondering if I was going to produce proof of what Tanaquill was up to in time.
We had reached the vows themselves, and when Bres asked the traditional question about objections, the Dagda tensed as if he would offer one. It was one of those moments that seemed to drag on for days.
No one spoke up, though I got the impression many of the guests expected someone to do so. Bres paused long enough to give the impression that even he expected something.
Just as the purple-robed Bres turned his attention back to the couple, that slower-than-molasses counterspell finally did its job.
My blood double flickered, then became for a second an Olympian I hadn’t met, though his look suggested he was perhaps related to Apollo. I had little time to ponder, because the moment he became himself again, he screamed and then vanished, forced back to Olympus by the ichor in his veins.
Tanaquill might somehow have glossed over that unexpected development, had not Gwynn ap Nudd also flickered and vanished. In his place stood Tormod, one of Nicneven’s Scottish followers. Even worse for Tanaquill, one of her bridesmaids had suddenly become Nicneven herself, standing incongruously in a sky-blue gown that no longer fit her. The other bridesmaids had been transformed into Nicneven’s witches. That was going to be hard for Tanaquill to explain.
“What…what is this deception?” she asked, feigning horror as she backed away from the much-changed wedding party. I wondered if anyone would believe she wasn’t in on the plot.
The Dagda grabbed one of Doirend’s brooches, which became his great club as soon as it was in his hand.
“Nicneven is an outlaw!” he yelled, ignoring Tanaquill for the moment. “Let her be brought to justice, and her witches with her!”
Following his lead, I let my Alroy form dissolve and grabbed Doirend’s other brooch, which became White Hilt and flamed to life in my hands.
Unfortunately, being so far back, which had been good for concealment, did not work as well for apprehending the fugitives. Hundreds of now-panicked wedding guests stood between us and Nicneven. The Dagda’s club, large as it was, didn’t reach that far, and it was not a throwing weapon, though he looked tempted to try. As for me, I couldn’t very well shoot flames through the guests, some of whom were tall for faeries and kept getting in the way of my shot.
“Take these impostors into custody!” Tanaquill ordered the guards. Maybe that was the exit plan agreed on in the event of unexpected problems. If so, that was not apparent from Nicneven’s reaction. She had already surrounded herself with ice magic, ready to freeze anyone who stepped toward her. Her witches raised hellfire, further increasing the fear among the guests. Bres seemed to be radiating some kind of darkness from himself, a distillation of centuries of bitterness derived from his long isolation underground.
With a battle looking inevitable, Tanaquill jumped from the platform, and guards moved to hustle her through the door directly behind it.
It was hard not to notice that the rest of her guards made no move against the impostors and Bres. I wondered if the mass of archers above had heard the order, but they gave no sign, either. Their combined presence, once so menacing, now seemed almost decorative.
The wedding guests included a number of
great warriors, but they were both unarmed and too surprised to have developed an immediate magical response. It looked as if stopping Nicneven, at least at first, was going to depend on the Dagda, me, and our friends. I could already feel power building nearby; Queen Mab was brewing something. Magnus and Finvarra’s real guards were readying to charge the platform. Magnus had raised some kind of magical protection around them, but it probably wouldn’t be strong enough to resist all the accumulated sorvery on the other side.
The Dagda was already pushing his way forward, a task made simpler by his substantial size. I couldn’t follow his example not only because I was smaller but because a former high king of Ireland would get a free pass for things that I wouldn’t.
I did the only thing I could do. I took to the air, and I started streaming fire at Nicneven as soon as I didn’t have to worry about any of the guests getting in my way. At the same time, I did what I could to broadcast a simple message to her guards and her archers: “Your queen gave you an order! Why are you not trying to apprehend Nicneven?”
I didn’t get any kind of response and could not tell if my message had even been received. At that point I had to start dodging hellfire being slung at me by the witches. Nicneven alone I could have handled, but facing at the same time five witches, all of whom had obviously sold their souls for power, was more than I could tackle alone. I barely escaped unfried, and that was because Manann mac Lir threw up a great wave of saltwater to cut off a couple of the hellfire blasts. The wave became steam, but it served its purpose.
By now Queen Mab had put Tormod and the groomsmen to sleep, though the groomsmen had just been standing there looking stupid. They may not have been in on the deception; right now I didn’t know or care.